


Chasing Ghosts

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Dark, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Marauders' Era, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Plot, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-09-21 20:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: “I guess I’m not ready to join the land of the living just yet,” Harry says. “Need a little more time here at Hogwarts, with all the ghosts. You know what I mean?”In the aftermath of the war, Harry doesn't feel ready to leave the safety of the castle, and to go out into the world at large: he wants to stay. The Room of Requirement - with great reluctance - grants his wish.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note re: ages that Harry is 18 and Severus 16 at the beginning of this; by the end, Harry will be around 19, and Severus around 17. If that kind of age gap is gonna be an issue for you, this isn't the fit for you.

Mist shrouds King’s Cross Station, coming around Harry’s feet in thick white plumes, but he barely notices it, is barely cognizant of it as he moves quickly toward the main platform of the station, feeling the familiar stone floor beneath his feet. There’s no train in the station yet, and thus, no one waiting at the platform to get on—

No one except one.

Harry feels everything stop when he stands with his feet flat on the concrete, his hands at his sides, his gaze staring forward. A tension he hadn’t known was in his chest, a desperate uncertainty he hadn’t let himself acknowledge, untangles itself in one smooth movement, and leaves his chest free and empty.

Perhaps King’s Cross Station is how it always is: perhaps there is bustle, and noise, and yelling. Perhaps people are rushing back and forth around him, crying out for lost trolleys or missing family members, insisting they need just one thing patched onto their robes before the train gets here, asking if you’ve got enough sandwiches for the train, Susie, have you got enough money for the trolley witch—

Perhaps it all goes on as usual. Perhaps King’s Cross is its usual array of colours and laughter and brightness and yells.

If it is, Harry notices none of it.

He inhales, taking in a great lungful of air that makes him feel like he could float, and he looks at the exception to the natural brightness of the little pocket universe around them (which is what King’s Cross is, what it always has been, if truth be told, he’s always known that, always known it’s a little existence of its own, between one world and another) to the figure dressed all in black, his hands loosely clasped in front of his stomach.

“Hello,” Harry says, and Severus turns his head. He looks at Severus silently, expectantly. His skin doesn’t look as unhealthily sallow as Harry had always remembered it being – but then, he’s much younger now, much younger than he was. There aren’t as many wrinkles in his face, and his hair is longer, too, than he always had it when he was Harry’s teacher, and isn’t it odd, to think of that Severus Snape, when this one is so different? “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes,” Severus says. “Are you coming?”

“I think I have to,” Harry says, with no small amount of rueful humour, and he sees the other man’s lips quirk at their edges just slightly, just a little sadness showing in the black of his eyes. Harry steps forward, and he comes to stand in parallel with Severus, his toes touching the line at the edge of the platform. “Onwards and upwards.”

“If you say so,” Severus says, seeming sceptical, but he’s so… _relaxed_. Harry’s never seen him so relaxed, not here, as he’s seen Severus for the past year or so, and not twenty years in the future, when… But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? That’s a different world. It’s a different _universe_. “I think I hear the train coming.”

“Do you?” Harry asks, leaning forward to look: he doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t see anything either, but he knows the other man’s hearing is good, better than his own, probably. Beside him, on the platform, the side of Severus’ hand brushes against Harry’s, and Harry turns to look at him, feeling his lips part slightly—

And then he interlinks their fingers, their palms together. He sees the momentary uncertainty, the momentary grit of Severus’ crooked teeth, unused to actually _touching_ somebody else… But then he relaxes, his shoulders loosening again, his jaw relaxing.

“Onwards and upwards, Mr Potter,” Severus murmurs, so quietly Harry can barely hear it, and Harry smiles.

“If you say so, Mr Snape,” he replies, and they stand just so, like that.

The train comes.


	2. Chapter One: The Hourglass

In the end, it isn’t anything big.

Harry had expected it to be big and explosive – he’d expected a big shower of sparks and yelling and screaming on both sides, a dramatic split away from each other. Maybe Ginny would hex him or throw something at him; maybe he’d throw some jinxes back at her, or make all the plates veer away from him so that they shattered loudly against the wall instead. He had sort of imagined it in the Burrow’s kitchen, but they never got that far.

It isn’t like that – any of it – at all.

For the first few weeks he and Ginny both had stayed at the castle: hundreds of people had lingered in the castle’s walls in the direct aftermath, helping put the walls back together, helping clean up the castle, and mostly revelling in the quiet refuge the castle walls offered, being able to take some time to clean up, before going home to whatever homes they had…

The whole world had been in uproar, until it wasn’t. The celebrations had spanned the whole nation: fireworks, cheering, the desperate taste of victory. There had been drinking and parties and whoops for joy that split right through the nights, which were growing shorter and brighter as the summer went on…

Then, the whole world was quiet. They’d had their parties, but the parties were over now, and they’d had to brush off their hangovers, surrounded by the corpses of those they’d loved, and stare at the ruins they had to make back into Magical Britain.

Harry could never help thinking – perhaps not all the time, not when he was busy actually getting some work done, or when he was too exhausted by working to actually _think_ , but for a good deal of time, for a good chunk of the day – that this is what it must have been like, the first time. Sure, there hadn’t been a great war at Hogwarts, and there hadn’t been quite so dramatic a final confrontation, involving so many people (so many dead…) but there’d still been upheaval, there’d still been so much to set right.

You can’t celebrate forever.

Not when you have fifty funerals lined up ahead of you.

So he and Ginny had slept in the same bed at Hogwarts, side by side with a little gap between them, because on some nights, he couldn’t stand being touched by anything, could barely deal with the actual _mattress_ underneath him because it didn’t feel real, and ended up on the floor instead, and on some nights, because it made her shiver and cry out to be held, even loosely, by someone in the dark.

And then, it had been a slightly bigger gap.

They were both thinking it then, Harry supposes.

This was what they were meant to do as a couple – share a bed, and have sex, and actually have time to grow closer now that the war was over, but it just didn’t pan out like that. He found himself looking at her, sometimes, trying to recover that spark he’d felt within him: he’d thought about Ginny victorious, running up the Quidditch field with her broom above her head and a grin on her face; he’d thought about Ginny soaked through from the rain, giggling with Luna as they’d helped each other pull their cloaks off and Hermione had stood ready with a drying charm; he’d thought about Ginny smiling at him, softly, and touching his face, his lips, with her thumb.

He thought of everything he could think of, and none of it made him feel in love, or devoted, or excited. It just made him feel sad.

He even thought of Ginny _with_ somebody else, like Dean Thomas, or Michael Corner, but even that had prompted a blankness in his chest. Gone was the furious desperation of jealousy, unnameable but snapping its jaws inside him, fiercely declaring that nobody else should have her.

Instead, there was just nothingness, and a distant, vague sense of relief.

Maybe it was the same on Ginny’s side. Maybe it felt wooden for her, too, and like there was emptiness instead of feeling…

Standing on the grassy hill outside of Hogwarts, a little while down from the courtyard, they’d stood together on the path, not touching one another, a little distance between them. Maybe, in a different universe, he and Ginny are soulmates. Maybe, if the war had gone on longer, if they’d been fighting together, it would have been different. But a year away from each other, that’s a long time, and everything feels off now, like they’re both kind of out of rhythm.

“I’m going to join the Holyhead Harpies,” Ginny says. She says it in the awkward, slightly too-polite tone that Harry has gotten used to, over the past few weeks, as they’ve both danced around their spontaneous… incompatibility. And the worst part is, Harry is certain, that he _hasn’t_ spend enough time thinking about Ginny, thinking about fixing this.

His mind is on other things, and not just work he intentionally distracts himself with – he’s thinking of what money he has left, and where he’s gonna live, and what he’s gonna _do_ , and about all the people they’ve lost, and about what he is, who he is, with Voldemort dead, and about Snape…

Snape, his black robes darkening with blood, his black eyes staring, his throat torn out, and staring so desperately into Harry’s eyes, gripping tight to the front of his jacket with a vicelike grip that Harry wishes he could never forget, but is so certain he never will: Snape, who seems determined to unnerve him even weeks after his death.

“That’s great,” Harry says, wincing when it comes out flat, and toneless.

“Some Quidditch teams offered you positions, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t want to do that?”

“Nah,” Harry says. “I, um… I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t feel like the time for Quidditch right now.” Beside him, Ginny bristles, her shoulders stiffening, and he says, “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that – I meant for me. It’s probably a good idea, for you to get into the sport… Give people a positive thing to root for.” Ginny sighs, the tension going out of her, and she runs a hand through her hair.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Mum already gave me an earful about it, so I was expecting more of a fight.”

“S’alright,” Harry says. “I know me and Molly look very similar, but—” Ginny laughs, punching him playfully in the arm, and Harry turns to look away from her, and the mostly rebuilt outer wall, at the spread of the grass, still singed and ripped up in places, at the lake. Hogwarts had been his home, for so many years… He doesn’t know if he’s ready to give it up, to go somewhere else, but he doesn’t think he has it in him to think about going back to school right now, to go from life on the run, to NEWTs, and studying, and homework. There’s a part of him, a dark part of him he knows he can’t voice to anybody, that wishes he’d stayed on the ground after Voldemort had put him down, that wishes it had all gone black, and ended… There’s a part of him that wishes he’d followed Dumbledore, Voldemort be damned. “I’m gonna stay here a little longer, I think.”

“Then what?” Ginny asks. There’s a short pause, and she says gently, “Harry, you can’t put everything off forever.”

“I know,” Harry says. “But I figure that, uh… Well. I’ve done a lot for everybody. I think that I can take a little time to put stuff off, with that in mind.” Ginny smiles slightly, and then she looks out, away from him.

“It’s not working, is it?” she asks. She doesn’t sound angry, or like she might throw some hexes around: she just sounds a little sad. “I spent all that time, thinking about you, and now we’re together, it doesn’t feel real. Like we were better on paper than in real life, or better in the… The build-up, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs. “I’m sorry. I thought I could just come in like a big hero, I suppose, sweep you off your feet. I don’t think I’m that kind of guy.”

“No,” Ginny murmurs. “Truth be told, Harry, I don’t know if I _want_ that kind of guy.”

“We can still be friends.”

“I want to be friends,” Ginny confirms. “I think we need all the friends we can get right now.” There’s a thickness in Harry’s throat, and he thinks of the laugh on Fred’s face, the laugh that froze—

“Yeah,” Harry says. “So… that’s it, then. It’s over.”

“Yeah,” Ginny says. “I thought it’d be more dramatic.”

“Me too.”

The blue skies are beginning to fade to a warm, peachy colour, and for a little while they stand together, watching as the colour palette takes in reds and lilacs, the sunset golden and warm on their skin as they watch everything change, in preparation for the night to come. When they go inside, they split apart, and don’t say another word about it, except to sleep in separate beds that night.

It’s the greatest relief Harry has ever known, suddenly sleeping in a bed alone, with no glancing touch against his skin, no body breathing too close to him, no too-hot warmth beside him.

He sleeps like the dead.

Or, he wishes.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Harry walks back and forth in front of the doors of the Room of Requirement. Neville had told him it wouldn’t work anymore, but he wants to try anyway, if only to have a vague idea of what it is he _does_ want. He tries to keep his mind blank as he walks one way and then the other way, and then the other way again—

The double doors of the Room of Requirement are present before him, made of dark wood, and he takes a moment to breathe before he hauls them open, staring within.

Before him spans the huge room of junk that the Room of Requirement had once had in it, now turned to black ashes and cinders, and Harry thinks of the corpse of Gregory Goyle in amongst the dust.

Sick to his stomach, he turns away, and walks hurriedly down the corridor.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

He doesn’t want to think of being outside Hogwarts. He doesn’t want to think about all the job offers people keep sending him, or the letters politicians send him asking him questions, or about reporters; he doesn’t want to think about the war, or about Voldemort, or about anything, really.

But when he tries not to think about _anything_ , he thinks about all that white light, and how relaxed he’d felt, and he thinks of how relaxed Sirius, Remus, and his parents had looked, when he saw them in the Forbidden Forest, and Merlin, he aches to go out there and pick up every damned pebble he can, trying to find that stupid stone, but he _knows_ he doesn’t want to do that, just like he hadn’t wanted the Elder Wand.

Not really.

All other paths of thought cut off to him, he thinks about Snape, and that, inevitably, means thinking about Snape dying, Snape’s corpse, Snape’s blood thick on his robes and on Harry’s trousers when he knelt beside him, mingling with memory…

“Did you think that Snape was a good teacher?” Harry asks, breaking the silence of the classroom, where he had been waiting for instruction as to what vague repair duty Flitwick was going to assign him next. Professor Flitwick glances up from the blueprints of Hogwarts spread out over his desk, and he peers at Harry for the longest moment, his lips parted beneath the thick hair of his moustache.

“Mr Potter—”

“Don’t do that. Harry is fine.” His voice is a little thicker than he wants it to be, and Flitwick looks at him with a soft look in his eyes.

“Albus always called you Harry, you know,” Flitwick says softly, and he momentarily leaves his ruler and his wand on top of the table, dropping back into his chair. His blue eyes concentrate not on Harry, but on some nebulous thing in the middle distance, his expression a mask of reminiscence. “We scolded him for it, sometimes, for his favouritism: always, at the staff meeting, we all called you _Mr Potter_ , but not him. He called you Harry.” This isn’t what Harry has been trying to think about, and it makes a complicated emotion twist in the lower part of his belly, sickly and thick with grief.

“Oh,” he says, finally.

“Have you been thinking a lot about Severus?” Flitwick asks, and Harry puts his hands in his pockets, leaning back on one of the desks. It is the first of June, and virtually all the people here to help have filtered out: all that’s left is orphans, refugees with nowhere else to go, the staff… And Harry. He only really comes under one category, but he’s always been an orphan, under Hogwarts’ roof.

“Don’t really know what else to think about,” Harry murmurs. “The idea of the future is kind of upsetting, if I’m honest, so I guess I’ve been twisting myself in knots over the idea of the past instead. You know. Standard stupid trains of thought.”

“It isn’t stupid,” Flitwick says, shaking his head slightly. He sighs, quietly, his head touching to the back of his chair. “We were all so awful to him, when he first started on the staff. This was… This was from 1981, and he initially was sharing the position with Horace, but—” Flitwick’s lip curls in disgust, and he lets out a low squeak of distaste. “Horace always was a coward, ugly man with no sense of loyalty.” Harry stares at him, and Flitwick clears his throat. “Anyway. After the Christmas break, Horace was gone, and he just didn’t return. He didn’t leave any instructions for Severus, except for the lesson plan they’d already decided on, and Severus was left to sink or swim. He knew where everything was, of course – you know, he’s been brewing most of the potions for the Infirmary since he was about fourteen, as Horace was always rather reticent to take on work he could get out of doing…”

“How were you awful to him?” Harry asks, slowly.

“Oh,” Flitwick says, looking ashamed. “We thought he was a Death Eater, we thought… Well, we didn’t know _what_ we thought, really. We knew he’d been an unpleasant young man, as a student, that he’d taken company with Death Eaters, and that he had been very carefully groomed by Lucius Malfoy into something more than what he’d been when he’d arrived. Over the past few years he spent with us, he dropped his accent, took on that more delicate way of speaking; he bought new clothes, the same robes you always saw him wearing. He changed the way he _walked_ , even. It was… It was odd, seeing him remake himself like that, particularly because of the way he courted the attention of the other young Death Eaters. None of us thought he would last out the year as Potions Master, and none of us wanted him to, but then he did. And then the next year… And the next. And he… He _cared_. He really did.

“Oh, when he was a boy, you know, he was never cheerful, never happy, not for long. I’d see him laughing with that Malfoy, or with your mother, but as soon as they turned away from him, he’d go right back to being dour. I don’t know, truthfully, if he ever had a happy day in his life.” Flitwick sighs, putting his head in his hands, and Harry feels guilty for bringing it up. There’s enough to rebuild already, without hammering home the stuff Flitwick must be feeling about Snape, all those conflicting feelings—

“It must be so hard for you,” Flitwick murmurs, glancing up at him. “You never… None of the students ever knew him, really. He had a policy of not laughing or smiling in front of any of you, not genuinely. He thought that his mask was very important.”

“I saw him smile, once or twice.”

“But not genuinely,” Flitwick murmurs. “You saw a nasty smirk, maybe, or one of those horrible dead-eyed smiles, when he’s playing at being kind. But you never saw him _relax_ , laugh. He looked so much—” Flitwick trails off, and he shakes his head. “Why are you thinking about this, Harry? You oughtn’t upset yourself, thinking about Severus.”

“I’m upset anyway,” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders. “Might as well be upset _about_ something.”

“Your mother said something like that to me once,” Flitwick murmurs. “She was a dab hand at charms, you know, she… I don’t suppose you want to hear about that.” Harry takes a second, evaluating the dull sensation in his chest, the vague emptiness. At some point, he’ll start feeling everything again, he’s sure: he’ll start getting more than just annoyed, when Hermione drags him into going for a walk, and he’ll start laughing at Ron’s jokes, and the world will be in colour again. He’s just adjusting, after all the pressure of the war, to something different.

“Not right now,” he says. “But I think I’d like to. One day. I think I’m gonna… I’m just gonna take a walk.”

“Alright,” Flitwick murmurs, and Harry walks back out of the door, into the corridor.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

The door to the Room of Requirement doesn’t even appear this time.

Figures.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Sat out by the lake, Harry takes up a flat stone, and he represses the vague instinct to flip it over in his fingers, just to check, just in case… But he doesn’t _want_ it. He knows he doesn’t. he flicks his wrist, and he watches as the stone skip over the water.

“Your father used to do that, you know,” says the voice of McGonagall behind him.

“Was he a good man?” Harry asks.

“Of course he was,” McGonagall replies, confusion obvious in her voice. “Why would you ask a thing like that?” He feels her come forward, come closer, and he glances at her as she looks down at him, standing up straight – it’s probably best that she doesn’t try to crouch down beside him, or sit down in the grass… He thinks for a second, trying to digest the swirl of emotions in his chest, the awkward burn of one feeling against another, everything tangled up.

“Behind me, on that hill, in their fifth year, he held Snape up by an ankle, and he just… Tortured him, really. In front of everyone, and they were all laughing, and jeering. That was his worst memory, you know. Snape’s. He was a Death Eater, and a spy, for years, but that was the worst thing that ever happened to him. And my father did it to him.” McGonagall stares down at him, her lips slowly parting, and then she does sink down onto the grass beside him. He reaches out to offer her a hand to help her down, but she waves it off, sitting down on the grass and letting her legs flatten out before her, so that her feet almost come to the edge of the bank.

“Who told you that, Potter?” she asks quietly.

“Harry,” he says. “Please.”

“Who told you?” she repeats softly, and her old fingers gently brush his shoulder, patting him in a way that Harry supposes is maternal.

“Nobody told me,” Harry says, picking up another stone, and he throws it forward, watching it skip far across the water and into the distance. “When I was in fifth year, he was meant to give me Occlumency lessons, you know, to help with Voldemort?” She blinks fast, but she doesn’t flinch, and that’s all the reaction he sees in her. “He borrowed Dumbledore’s pensieve, and I… It was so stupid, it was so… _selfish_ , but I was curious, I wanted to know what was in it, because I’d seen a memory in Dumbledore’s office the year before, and I fell in, and saw… I saw that. God, he was so angry with me, I’d never seen him so angry, and I’d never felt so disgusted. And the saddest thing, I keep— I keep thinking about it, but he genuinely thought that I must have found it funny. He was apoplectic, like he was about to burst a blood vessel or something, and I just ran clean away… I don’t know if he threw it at me or if it was just his magic, but there was a jar smashed behind me as I went, he was so…” He coughs quietly, looking down at his hands ( _his hands stained with Snape’s blood, Snape’s robes dark with blood, his throat ripped open)_ and exhaling very slowly. “I never told anybody that. I didn’t want anyone to… I knew how he felt, and the thing was, he _knew_ I knew how he felt, because he’d been cracking my head open like a damned nut for the past few— He’d _seen_ me getting treated like that, by my cousin. And it wasn’t the same, it was never as bad as that, it was never that… That calculatedly cruel, and he was old enough to know better, but not as old as James was, not as…”

He trails off, feeling sick, and angry, and—

And the thing is, he doesn’t even know if that _was_ the worst part. Because James was cruel to him all the time, wasn’t he? Snape was always the butt of some joke, with Harry’s father, or the target of some prank: the really tragic thing was how he lashed out at Harry’s mother, how she turned her back on him, how she broke away from him, because of that betrayal.

“Was anybody ever kind to him?” Harry asks. “Except for my mother, because I know what happened there, I know what he called her, and I’m not saying he was right to do it, because that’s an awful thing to call anybody, I know it is, but… Before that, or after, was _anybody_ — Except her?” He doesn’t look at McGonagall. He can hear her breathing beside him, can almost imagine he hears her thinking ( _probably thinking you’re mad, that you keep asking everybody about a dead man who always hated you)._

“Lucius Malfoy,” McGonagall says, finally. “He was always very kind to him, in his own way. When Severus came to Hogwarts, he was in his seventh year, and he took the boy under his wing. Severus, at that age, he was… Well.” She stops short, swallowing, and she says, “He was almost feral. Flinched at the slightest sound, lashed out if anybody got too close to him, had the most dreadful temper, far more so than as an adult. James once tried to jinx him from the back of my classroom, and before I could even do anything, Severus was on _top_ of him, punching him like he wanted to kill him. But Lucius, he had a way of… soothing the boy. Calming him down. Severus hadn’t been in Hogwarts for longer than three weeks before Lucius was in my office, telling me that he had suspicions the boy was being abused, and that his home life wasn’t safe for him.” Harry feels his tongue shift against the back of his teeth, and he inhales very slowly.

“How come he went to you, and not to Professor Slughorn?” Harry asks.

“I asked him that,” McGonagall murmurs, and he glances at her, seeing her think for a moment, but then she shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know.” It’s a lie. Harry knows it is, although he doesn’t know how he knows. Maybe McGonagall just doesn’t lie very often – or maybe she’s lied so often this past year that she’s just tired.

“No one took him away.”

“I spoke to the mother, Eileen Prince,” McGonagall murmurs. “Said that her son had been admitted to the hospital wing when he arrived at Hogwarts, that there were concerns about his situation at home. She swore up and down it was his father, and that he was out of the picture now, and that all would be better, when he came back in the summer.”

“She lied.”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“We couldn’t do anything,” McGonagall murmurs. “He was a Muggle – he could hardly be tried by wizarding courts, and nor could we report him to the Muggle authorities, because there was the possibility that Severus might be separated from his mother were he put through the Muggle system, which he was emphatic about not wanting. The summer he turned sixteen, he actually stayed with the Malfoys, and the summer after that, he rented his own apartment in Knockturn Alley, I think.”

“So that was it, then,” Harry murmurs. “Lucius Malfoy, and my mother.”

“Albus—”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “No, I don’t… Can we not talk about him right now, please?” McGonagall’s hand touches his shoulder again, and Harry breathes out raggedly, drawing a hand through his hair and gripping tightly at it. Feeling bad about _Snape_ is bad enough, but Dumbledore… Those feelings are more complicated, the more he thinks about them, and most of all, he just feels grief. He’d thought it had faded away, with his year on the run, but it’s like a bone that hadn’t set properly, and now when he thinks of anything, it just hurts even more.

“There were others,” McGonagall murmurs. “Poppy took him on as a young protégé, when he was a young boy: at his fifth year interview with Horace, he said he wanted to go to St Mungo’s.” He tries to imagine Snape in the colourful robes of St Mungo’s, maybe standing next to Andromeda Tonks, but it doesn’t really work, doesn’t really click in his head. Snape, with his scowl, and his temper, and his… Harry realizes he can barely imagine him as a young man, let alone as something other than the batlike Potions Master of Hogwarts.

“He wanted to be a Healer?”

“I don’t know,” McGonagall says, her hand rubbing a gentle circle on the side of his shoulder. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like how close she is, how tight the universe feels around him, but he doesn’t want to be impolite, not when she’s obviously trying to make him feel better. “He wanted to make potions, certainly. I don’t know that he ever wanted to be a _Healer_ , because he knew he wasn’t good with other people, and always avoided other people, if he could, other children especially. I think he envisaged being in a laboratory in the basement of St Mungo’s, never having to talk to anybody except to take an order for more bruise salve.” There’s a fondness in her voice Harry’s never heard anybody have, when talking about Snape, and it makes him feel even sadder, for some reason.

“Sounds nice,” Harry says. There’s a slightly stuttered pause.

“You think?” McGonagall asks, in a tone that’s just too close to casual, like she’s trying too hard to make herself sound normal when she says it, and he shrugs his shoulders, relieved when she draws a hand away. “And you know, I think he was the only student Argus made a point of saying wasn’t a disgusting little brat. That counts, I think, for something, Potter.” Harry feels a laugh come from his throat, low and a little bit hoarse. He hasn’t laughed in a while: it shows. “Your father was a good man. He… He realized, as he got older, just how cruel he was to many of the Slytherins, those that rubbed him the wrong way. He felt guilty for how he’d treated all of them, Severus included. That happens to many young bullies, you know: they grow up, and realize the damage they’ve done.”

Harry thinks of Dudley, standing on the pathway in front of Privet Drive, his hands loosely held together, staring at Harry, _staring_ at him…

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah, I know.”

“Where are Miss Granger and Mr Weasley these days?” McGonagall asks.

“Hermione’s gonna come back for her seventh year, in September. Ron’s trying out for the Auror program. They’re both at the Burrow for now, I think.” They keep coming by, visiting, and asking him to visit the Burrow, but he knows that if he does, they’ll press him to do something more. Get him to go the Ministry, or to a Quidditch try-out, or something, try and make him go and be a _person_ , and he’s… He’s not up for it. Not right now.

“Why aren’t you?”

“I guess I’m not ready to join the land of the living just yet,” Harry says. “Need a little more time here at Hogwarts, with all the ghosts. You know what I mean?” He looks at her, and he sees that her eyes are shining with tears: guilt bursts inside him like a popped balloon, and he swallows hard, looking at her guiltily.

“Oh, Professor, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” she whispers. “Oh, Potter, I’m _sorry.”_ And she grabs him, and she— She _hugs_ him. McGonagall’s body is bony and stiff, and he feels himself pause for a second, not sure what to do, before he puts his arms around her and hugs her back, trying not to squeeze too hard. “None of this should have happened, least of all to you, boy.”

 _Least of all to me?_ Harry wants to repeat, but he doesn’t.

He hugs her back, and when she breaks away, and asks him how long he’s gonna stay out here for, he says, “I don’t know.”

“Stay as long as you like, Potter,” she says: she doesn’t just mean by the lake.

“Won’t someone complain, if I stick around long enough?”

“Of course not,” she says, already walking away. “Even if you weren’t the nation’s sweetheart, I’m headmistress, and what I say goes.” He laughs, and he almost imagines the sound of it travels over the water, like one of his skipping stones.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

The door to the Room of Requirement is singular this time, great and gilded and beautiful, its golden edges shimmering in the light. Harry pulls it open, and he looks inside, at the seemingly eternal stretch of a long, thin corridor, at the grey walls…

On every wall, a portrait. In every portrait, a figure.

The one closest to the door is one from the Headmistress’ Office, of an old headmistress Harry can’t remember the name of, so perhaps this corridor has all the portraits from her office, all of them. _All of them_ —

Harry pulls the door shut with a quiet click.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

 “D’you need a hand with that, Mr Filch?” Harry asks.

“No!” Filch snaps. Ignoring the old man, Harry moves forward and into the room, putting his palms at the edge of the desk and bending his knees slightly. For a second, Filch stops dragging the desk ineffectually across the rough stone floor, his lip curling. “On three,” he mutters, and they lift the desk up together, carrying it out into the corridor and into a storage room. For a second, Harry pauses in the room, staring down at the desk: despite the state of most of the desks in the Potions classroom, which are stained with a thousand unknown patinas and odd effects, Snape’s desk always managed to stay perfectly clean, without even a scratch on the wood.

Filch watches him for a long second, his jaw set, his thin jowls shifting.

“Stronger’n you look, in’tcha?”

“Quidditch player, Mr Filch,” Harry says. “I’m short, not feeble.” Filch scoffs, putting his sharp noise in the air and watching Harry with a beady, yellowed eye, but then he moves down the corridor, gesturing for Harry to follow him. They work together for a while, moving all of the desks into storage, and it’s only when they’re working on the last row that Filch actually breaks the silence and speaks.

“Movin’ ‘em all out,” he says. “Putting ‘em in storage for now, ‘til they find a new room. New Potions Master wants a room upstairs, with a window and that.”

“That’s stupid. It’s fresh air you need, not an open window, and there’s loads of airflow down in the dungeons,” Harry says, not sure why this should make him feel quite so defensive. It isn’t just Snape – _Slughorn_ had always had the Potions classes down here in the dungeons too, and that’s just… Where Potions classes _are_. “It’s not like there’s inadequate ventilation.”

“That’s what I said,” Filch says bluntly, and they lift up another bench, taking it out to the storage room. “’Sides, s’best with no windows anyway, ‘cause it’s easier to account for light contamination on them fiddlier potions. They’re just gonna have to put the NEWT students down here in the dark anyway, you mark my words.”

“D’you brew, Mr Filch?” Harry asks.

“Pah! No. Just a cuppa tea.” Harry feels his lips twitch slightly. “But I heard him go off on it enough, didn’t I? Complained about everything, he did, but never about the dungeons.”

“That’s not true,” Harry murmurs. “I think he complained about there being too many Hufflepuffs in the dungeons, once.” Filch’s laugh is an ugly sound, sharp and rough, as if he’s been gargling broken glass, but it makes Harry smile himself.

“Off with you,” he says, waving a hand. “Go away.”

“I can keep helping,” Harry offers.

“Don’t want your help.”

“Fine,” Harry says, and he starts to walk away, but Filch’s thin hand grabs at the back of his robe, pulling him back to look at him. Harry takes Filch in, takes in his liver-spotted skin and his balding head, with its thin scraps of blond-brown hair, at his yellowing eyes, which were brown, once upon a time, and are now an indiscriminate, vaguely bile-hued colour.

“He hurt, at the end?” Filch asks, _demands_ , his voice suddenly sharp. “He in a lot of pain, like?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry says softly. “It was very quick, and with the Occlumency, I think he could actually push a lot of the pain he felt away, if he had to.” Filch’s nostrils flare, and suddenly, he seems like a much smaller man, his shoulders slumping slightly, his expression relieved.

“He din’t deserve that, to die like that,” Filch says, more to himself than to Harry.

“He didn’t deserve any of it,” Harry says, and Filch glances at him, his eyes narrowing as he searches Harry’s face, maybe for some kind of deception, or sarcasm, or irony. He doesn’t find any, apparently, because a little genuine pain shows on his face, and Harry is reminded of the desperate grief he’d seen in Filch when they’d found Mrs Norris petrified in his second year, of how he’d all but _wailed_ , and he’d been so angry… Mrs Norris winds herself around Filch’s ankles, and Harry takes a step back. “Mr Filch, um. I’m sorry. For the times I was rude to you, or when we took advantage, running behind your back.”

“Told you to go away, din’t I?” Filch barks, scooping up his cat, and Harry watches him stalk down the corridor in the other direction. He considers trying to talk to him further, but he doesn’t want to bother him, not now.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Harry wrenches open the doors to the Room of Requirement.

Inside, he sees nothing but a dead void, infinite and all-encompassing, completely dark. For just a second, he considers stepping inside, falling into the ether, into the eternal nothingness of it, the place where Vanished objects go…

Harry could be a ghost here: he could join all of the ghosts, and be one of them, and just—

He slams the doors shut.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

 “We’re worried about you, Harry, that’s all,” Hermione says. The Three Broomsticks is very quiet, but Harry prefers it that way, and he takes a very slow sip of his butterbeer, tasting its play over his tongue, thick and slightly warm. Ron and Hermione are both looking at him with concern showing in their eyes, and their hands are intertwined – almost thoughtlessly, like it hasn’t even occurred to them – where they rest on the table. “I mean, you know, it’s almost the end of July, now.”

“I know,” Harry says quietly.

“Have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday, mate?” Ron asks, and Harry blinks. His birthday. Of course, it’s going to be his birthday: it’s going to be his birthday, in just a few days. He’s going to be eighteen, eighteen years old, and he feels…

Nothing.

“Oh,” he says. “I’d… I hadn’t been thinking about it, to be honest.”

“I think it’d be nice to go out,” Hermione says. “Get you out of the castle, and, um, and out of Hogsmeade, as well. We could go to a restaurant in London, all of us together… The whole family.” She speaks very cautiously, as if she thinks she might set him off at any second, and he’s gotten annoyed at her before, for talking to him like this, but right now, he just doesn’t have the energy.

It’s like there’s nothing… No _goal_ anymore.

He killed Voldemort, sure.

But so many people died anyway. So many people suffered in the build-up to it. So many people _died_ , and for what?

“You can’t hole up at Hogwarts forever,” Ron says, his tone very gentle, his voice soft. “We miss you, you know. We don’t like to think about you in there, wandering the corridors, with Filch snapping at your heels.”

“Filch isn’t so bad,” Harry says.

“Well, now I know you’re going barmy,” Ron says, grinning at him, but Harry shakes his head.

“He’s just a Squib, Ron. Don’t you think it’s messed up, how horrible everyone is to him, when he’s— He can’t do any magic. He can’t protect himself, when a student decides to hex him, or hurt his cat. He’s stuck between the magical world and the mundane one, and he’s scuppered no matter which one he tries to live in.” Ron’s mouth falls open, his eyes searching Harry’s face, and then he looks at Hermione, obviously not sure what to say.

“You seem really depressed,” Hermione murmurs.

“Well,” Harry says. “Par for the course with me, isn’t it?”

“No,” Hermione says. “Harry, the war’s over. You have to move on eventually, you have to start living again.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready,” Harry says.

“I don’t think you’ll ever feel ready, mate,” Ron says, nudging their shoulders together. “Not until you jump in.”

“So many people are dead,” Harry says. “So many people. Don’t you wish— Don’t you wish it could have been different? If I could have… If I could have died, and saved one more person, just one more, I would have.” Hermione’s expression shifts, showing plain concern, and her fingers brush the back of Harry’s hand, the other one squeezing tightly at Ron’s.

Softly, she says, “Harry… It doesn’t bear thinking about that. It won’t bring anybody back.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

This time, Harry doesn’t bother with walking back and forth.

He walks right up to the Room of Requirement, and the door is there, waiting for him, at the end of the corridor, as he knew it would be. It is the 31st of July, and today, _today_ , Harry Potter is eighteen years old: he is eighteen years old, and this is the beginning of the rest of his life.

He _has_ to jump in.

Has to.

Or he never will.

But just—

“No ghosts this time,” Harry says. “Alright? Please, no ghosts. Give me something… Give me something alive, something to hope for. God, give me something to _save_ , if you think you can. God knows enough people say I have a hero complex.”

A breeze rushes in from an open window at the other end of the corridor, strangely cold given the warm sun outside, and he shivers as it runs over the back of his neck, and down his robes, shivering slightly. For some reason – instinctive, perhaps, or reflexive – he nearly lets go of the twin handles of the Room of Requirement, which are silver this time, and so cold under his hands he feels like they’re made of ice.

“No ghosts,” he repeats, and he opens the doors, stepping in.

They slowly creak closed behind him as he stands on the stone floor. The room is made of arching stone walls, coming up toward the middle: the architecture reminds him of the stonework in some of the towers, and he slowly steps inside, glancing cautiously around. Thick, black dust coats every surface, and although this isn’t the great hall of lost things, he instinctively knows that that thick, black dust is the same black ashes from it, he knows…

But something shimmers, under a heavy pile of thick dust about the size of a quaffle.

Suddenly, Harry is hit by another burst of freezing cold breeze, and this one must have come from within the room itself, because there’s nowhere for a draft like that to come from, and this one is _really_ cold, bites at his skin, digs at him as it wrenches past him—

“Well, you let me in,” Harry mutters to the castle, shaking himself off. “What, now you want me out?”

Silence rings in the little stone room, and he looks down at the pile of ashes, which has been dislodged.

Shining in the light from the stained glass window on one edge of the room, he sees glass in a polished mahogany frame, and he takes a slow step forward, dropping into a slow crouch. The glass is silvery in the soft light, and he reaches out: he’s almost ready for the bracing wind this time, for the ash it scatters over his hand ( _Gregory Goyle the blood, the blood, the ashes, Gregory Goyle—)_ , and he stares as more of the pile is pushed away, revealing the thing underneath.

An hourglass.

That’s all. Just an hourglass.

There’s something about it, the hourglass, which is only around fifteen inches high, and is cracked down one half… The sands within it seem to swirl, shifting and shimmering as they move around within the glass, and Harry’s mouth is dry.

He should go.

He should go, right now, he should go, right now, and go to his birthday in London, sit down to a nice lunch, and stop chasing ghosts, stop lingering in Hogwarts: he should join the world of the living.

But—

Hasn’t he been good, in other respects? Not searching for the stone out in the Forbidden Forest, not chasing after the portraits to talk to them, not overstepping that crucial boundary, and he’s been holding back so much, he’s been trying to be cautious, trying not to be stupid, to be too bold ( _foolish Gryffindor, you always were—)_ , and he just isn’t ready.

Not yet.

He’s not ready, not yet.

( _Ready for what? What isn’t he ready for? It’s just an hourglass, it doesn’t matter if he touches it, it won’t do anything it won’t—)_

Grasping tightly at the glass, Harry feels the hourglass under his fingers, surprisingly hot to the touch, much hotter than he’d been expecting, and he tries to pull his hand back from the sudden, glaring burn, but it won’t come free. He grunts in pain, trying to shake his hand free, but he can hear the hissing burn of the hot glass on his flesh, feel it eating right into the skin, and the sand is still swirling in the glass, drumming itself into a frenzied rush of tornado-like wind within the glass, but then—

“Agh—” Harry cries out as the sand suddenly throws itself at the crack in the hourglass’ upper bulb, digging through the gap and right into his flesh, and he yells, screams, but the heat is really getting unbearable now, tearing agonisingly up the flesh of his arm, and he falls back.

He’s aware, as he falls, of the hardness of the stone floor, feels the weight of the _thunk_ at the back of his head, and he feels like he hears—

A _pop_.

The world is black, comprised of darkness and pain, and he’s grateful when the second gives way to the first.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asks hoarsely as he shifts back on the pillow, and he grunts, reaching up and rubbing at his eyes. As usual, the infirmary is a striking thing to wake up to: he feels the crisp, white linens beneath him, feels the flannel of the Hospital Wing pyjamas, squints a little at the light forcing its way through the blinds. Either it’s coming into the afternoon, and he can still catch his meal, or it’s the next day… His arm aches, and he wrenches up his sleeve, looking at it, but—

There’s nothing there.

No wound, no injury… He opens and closes his hand a few times, expecting there to be some sort of horrible burn, or a mark where the crack was different to the smooth of the glass bulb, but there’s nothing.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Pomfrey says briskly as she comes over.

“What happened?” Harry asks, and she frowns at him.

“Well, I was hoping you could tell me,” she says, putting out her finger, and Harry follows it as she does the expected little test, checking his eyes: her finger, like her face, is extremely blurry.

“Have you got my glasses?”

“What glasses?” Pomfrey asks.

“Oh, very funny,” Harry says, giving her a slight smile, but he doesn’t see any change in her blurry expression. “Madam Pomfrey, come on, I’ve worn glasses since I was old enough to walk, you know that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, have we met?” Madam Pomfrey asks, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning forward slightly, and Harry feels his lips part. “Look, you were found in the courtyard, with a pretty nasty head injury – looks like a nasty breeze knocked you over, perhaps, or maybe you slipped. Were you here to visit somebody?”

“Visit somebody?” Harry repeats. “Look, Madam Pomfrey, could I just talk to Professor McGonagall, please? I don’t know if somebody’s put you up to this as a birthday joke, or something, but I really need to tell Hermione and Ron I’m okay—”

“Just one moment,” Pomfrey says, turning away, and he watches her blur across the blurry infirmary, disappearing into the thick fuzz around him. He grunts slightly, pulling himself up in the bed, and once more, he rubs hard at his eyes. God, he’s _never_ lost his glasses. Never! He hears Pomfrey’s footsteps come closer, bustling across the floor, and somebody else, but—

“God, breaking out the orange, huh?” Harry asks, trying to squint, but it’s no good – he’s blind as a bat, and always has been. All he can make out is the long, orange robe, the black on the head of McGonagall’s bun, some kind of white ruff. “This is part of the whole thing, I guess? Make Harry leave by just being odd until he bails and runs off to— I don’t know, become an Auror. What, did you go through Dumbledore’s wardrobe?” He feels bad about the joke as soon as he says it, even before the shocked silence it’s met with, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry. That’s— I don’t know, I guess Aberforth has all that stuff now, assuming any of it… I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t know when I lost my glasses, I—”

“Madam Pomfrey,” says McGonagall, but not in McGonagall’s voice: the voice is quiet, and elderly, and full of a warmth and kindness that Harry hasn’t heard in just over two years. The voice is also… Male. “Would you give us a few moments, please?”

“Albus,” she says. “I really don’t think—”

“Just a few moments,” Dumbledore repeats, and Harry feels himself shudder. He feels sick, and he puts his hand to his mouth. He’s going to wake up, any moment – he’s going to wake up in the Room of Requirement with a nasty conk to the back of his head, but that’s all, that’s all…

Dumbledore steps closer, and Harry reaches out, grabs at his hand… Warm. Warm, and wrinkled, and with a pulse, but not blackened and dead, and not—

“You have a scar,” Harry says, gripping tightly at the hand, almost terrified to let go. “On your left knee. You have a scar there. It’s a map.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, and Harry is too distracted to really try to make sense of the tone he uses.

“What’s it of?” Harry asks, focusing on controlling his breathing, trying not to let himself heave in the desperate, wheezing breaths he wants to. “What’s it of, the map?”

“Why, the London Underground,” Dumbledore says softly. “How did you know that?”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“You’re a Potter, no? A striking resemblance to the scion of the Potter family, young James.” Harry wrenches his hand back, and he does the maths in his head, thinks it through, thinks it— Hourglass. Hourglass, very hot, not an hourglass, timeturner, timeturner, or something similar, because it was too big to be a timeturner, but timeturner, and Fiendfyre, and it… On him. On him, the timeturner, the sand, maybe a reaction with his magic, maybe—

God. He’s pretty sure he’s still out of it from the head injury, because that train of thought made no sense at all.

“What year is it?”

“Might I be—”

“Don’t try to get me to look at you,” Harry says, when Dumbledore leans over the bed, trying to look at him properly. “I know you’re a Legilimens, I’m not _stupid_.” There’s a long pause between them, Harry looking on the bed, and he says, “I can’t see. I don’t have my glasses.”

“Short-sighted or long-sighted?”

“Short-sighted.”

“Poppy usually has a few spare sets,” Dumbledore murmurs.

“Have you got a spare for James Potter?”

“Ah, so you _are_ a Potter?”

“I just think our prescriptions are the same.”

“Mmm hmm.” He hears the old man move across the room, and then he comes back, setting the glasses in Harry’s palm. Harry draws them up, sliding them onto his nose, and he feels at them, frowning slightly. Instead of the round lenses he’s used to, and that he’d seen James wear in photos, these ones are big and square, but the prescription is almost right, and he can see just fine. He can see the little seashells embroidered in the orange fabric of Dumbledore’s robes, and his entire chest _aches_ as he risks a glance at the old man’s face, at the black cap on his head, at his beard… Harry had forgotten just how long the beard was, how stupid it looked, tucked into his belt like that.

“1974?” Harry asks.

“’76,” Dumbledore supplies. “I think, perhaps, that we ought take a little stroll to my office.” He says it so warmly, with such evident delight, and Harry closes his eyes, just for a second. Is this a dream? It doesn’t feel like a dream, but maybe it’s a dream: maybe he’ll wake up in a few minutes, and it’ll all be different…

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, when the world doesn’t fade and give way to something more abstract, or his own bed in the Gryffindor tower. “I think we should.”

1976.

1976.

19—

“Didn’t I say no ghosts?” he says, powerlessly. He doesn’t know what he expects – maybe another breeze, maybe a sound of something in the castle at large, but there comes no response, or at least, none that he understands.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Professor Dumbledore,” Harry says, feeling the strange abstraction, the surrealism, of being able to say that, out loud. Part of him wants to throw his arms around Dumbledore and sob into his beard; part of him wants to slap the old man into the next millennium right now. “We can talk about it in your office.”


	3. Chapter Two: Making Plans

Hogwarts is empty.

“Thirty-first of July, right?” Harry asks.

“The first,” Dumbledore corrects him.

“Right,” Harry says. “Because nothing’s ever simple.”

“Quite right,” Dumbledore agrees, and Harry listens to the echo of his footsteps on the floor as they walk forward, the way they seem to ring down the length of the corridor and into the castle as a whole. “I fear—”

“One second,” Harry says, and he flicks his wand out of his sleeve – of course, he would have his _wand_ , but not his glasses. He’d dug through his robes, finding the fabric all fine, finding his watch, his wand, but not his glasses. Bloody _odd_. He doesn’t bother to say the spells aloud as he flicks his wand, putting a few silencing wards around them, and using _Muffliato_. “It’s the funniest thing,” he mutters. “Ever since the battle, you know, non-verbal magic is a lot easier all of a sudden. Not _easy_ , no, but… Easier.”

“The battle?” Dumbledore repeats, delicately.

“I don’t know what I should tell you,” Harry says. “I don’t know what I shouldn’t. I mean, I know you, Professor Dumbledore – you’re too much of a control freak to actually call in the Temporal Repair Squad at the Department of Mysteries like we both know you should, no offence, but even without the Ministry getting involved I don’t know what _I_ should tell you. I mean, I never really read up on all the stuff Hermione said about time-turners anyway, because we destroyed most of them in the— Yeah, see, for example, I probably shouldn’t tell you _that_. On the other hand, maybe I should tell you everything, and by telling you everything, we could avoid me making a difference, but who’s to say by just appearing, I haven’t destroyed the whole timeline? Maybe I won’t be born. Ha! And look at me! I’m talking and talking away to you, because I’d trust you with my life, but I probably shouldn’t, because you haven’t the slightest idea of who I am, let alone a motivation to keep me—”

Harry closes his mouth. That’s unfair, he knows that’s unfair. He knows Dumbledore was only ever trying his best, that he didn’t want anybody to die, that he always tried his best—

( _Did he, though? Snape said it himself, that he raised you like a lamb to slaughter. Was he trying his best then? Isn’t this the whole reason you kept thinking about Snape and not about Dumbledore, because Snape was so much simpler?)_

“No one’s ever called me a “control freak” before,” Dumbledore says wryly.

“Liar,” Harry snaps back, almost reflexively. “I’ll bet you a silver Sickle that McGonagall called you a control freak at least twice this month.” He glances at Dumbledore, who is smiling as if Harry is a clown at a summer festival, and Harry feels himself laugh. “Okay, okay. You talk. Give me your advice.”

“In the event of a temporal discrepancy,” Dumbledore says, “perhaps we _ought_ call the Temporal Repair Squad… But, Mr Potter, who is to say that is the case? Perhaps—” Harry should be angry, perhaps, that Dumbledore is doing exactly what he’d do, finding the loopholes in a situation and weaving himself through them, but it’s…

Harry can’t help but laugh, desperately, with so much relief. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s younger, he’s _so much_ younger, but he’s alive, and he’s right here, next to Harry, and Harry can _touch_ him, can listen to him, can talk to him, and he’s _alive_ , and he hasn’t fallen off the Astronomy Tower ( _not yet_ ) and Snape hasn’t killed him ( _not yet)_ , and none of that stuff has happened yet. None of it.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry says, interrupting whatever the old man was saying. “This is— I’m sorry, I know that you don’t know me, but this is… This is weird for me, okay? This is weird for me too.” Professor Dumbledore stops, peering down at him, and Harry averts his eyes just slightly, so that Dumbledore can’t make eye contact. Occlumency is easier, too, in the aftermath, just like wandless magic, but he’s not been able to bring himself to concentrate on it, too much. Thought about it a lot, but not tried to practice.

“The world you come from,” Dumbledore asks, very softly. “The future, I take it?”

“A future,” Harry says. “Yes.”

“We knew each other?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry says. “Yes, for— For a long time.”

“You are a Potter?”

“Yes.”

“Your father?”

“James Potter.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t know what I should tell you and what I shouldn’t,” Harry says again. “But I do think, Professor, that my— That my main priority should be getting back to where I came from, so I do the least damage possible. Don’t you agree?” And that is true, he’s sure that’s true.

( _But you don’t have to. You could stay, you could fix everything, you could make it so he never gets to the point—)_

_(And if Hermione were here, she’d tell me, outright. Time travel is dangerous, it’s dangerous, and you have to damage everything as little as possible, you need to get home.)_

( _But—)_

_(Hero complex, right?)_

There are too many conflicting thoughts in his head, and he is grateful when Dumbledore says, “Aniseed balls,” and the two of them can step onto the staircase, riding up toward the headmaster’s office. The headmaster’s office, with all those instruments Harry smashed up, Merlin, he’d been so young and so _stupid_ , and there hadn’t been enough time with Dumbledore, to make it right, to really pay him back—

_The image of Albus Dumbledore, stumbling and drunk and out of it, sobbing like a child. Dumbledore’s eyes in the snatches of mirror, desperately hoping it could truly be him, and the crushing grief and disappointment when it was his brother. Dumbledore, dead, falling in slow-motion from the Astronomy Tower, and a thousand wands raised in—_

“Fawkes!” Harry says, and immediately, the phoenix is upon him, its little feet resting on his outstretched hands as he leans right in, letting the bird touch his beak to Harry’s face, lets him pick at his hair. He thinks of Hedwig, thinks of her affectionate way of nipping at him, biting at him, thinks of her falling— “God, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. The phoenix leans back on his hands, his weight barely anything (although its claws are a little sharp where they rest on Harry’s fingers), and he looks at him… Fawkes seems to look right inside him, and Harry keeps very still, resting under the bird’s piercing gaze.

“He’s never taken so well to a stranger,” Dumbledore murmurs, sounding thoughtful.

“I’m not a stranger,” Harry says. “Am I?” Fawkes nips the side of his ear, and Harry laughs a little as he flies back to his rest, settling down. “Besides, you know you can trust me. If he does. I need to get back.”

“Where is back?”

“1998.”

“’98,” Albus repeats, musingly. “Then Voldemort is—”

“No, no, you can’t ask me that,” Harry says, turning to look at him. “You can’t ask me— You can’t ask me about the future, because the more you know, the more you might be tempted to use it. You know that.” Dumbledore leans back upon his desk, his fingers touching against the wood. “How do you reverse a time turner?”

“You don’t,” Dumbledore says simply. “You wait for the allotted time to pass – you cannot use a time turner to go _forward_ in time, only backward.”

“And what if it was bigger?” Harry says. “An hourglass, about the size of a quaffle.” Harry holds out his hands, demonstrating the size of the thing, and he sees Dumbledore take in the shift of his hands through the crescent-cut glass of his spectacles, his expression analytical.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the— Oh, _shit_ ,” Harry mutters, putting his hand over his mouth and trying to remember. The Room of Requirement, the Come and Go Room, never on the Marauders’ Map, and no one had known what it was, before they figured it out in fifth year, no one knew… Did Dumbledore? Dobby knew about it, but did he? “I can’t tell you where,” he says, after a moment of deliberation.

“But in the castle?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “In the castle, in a secret room. Various magical artefacts are hidden there.”

“The Chamber of Secrets?” Dumbledore says it jokingly, but there’s an abrupt, chilling twist in Harry’s belly as he remembers that somewhere beneath them, in the bowels of Hogwarts, there is a basilisk resting in a dreadful sleep.

“Can I sit down?” Harry asks, and Dumbledore flicks his wand, Summoning over a chair that Harry sits down in, heavily. He feels a little light-headed, and it has nothing to do with the fact that his glasses prescription is slightly off, and is giving him a headache. “A big hourglass. Like a time turner, but bigger, and I… When I touched it, it was cracked, with the sand… The sand kind of— Do you have a pensieve?”

“I could simply use Legilimency,” Dumbledore offers pleasantly.

“Or I could just tell you,” Harry replies. Dumbledore’s eyes shine slightly as he looks at Harry kindly, and Harry sighs, adding, “The Department of Mysteries… It’s compromised, isn’t it? Or at least, you can’t know that it _isn’t_ compromised. By the Death Eaters. And that’d be worse, if Voldemort knew…”

“You say his name,” Dumbledore says. “People are no longer frightened, in 1998?”

“No,” Harry says. “No, people are still scared. Just not me.”

“Why not you?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Well, Mr Potter, I’m curious,” Dumbledore says. “Can you fault me for that?”

“Yes,” he says. “How do I— No, no, get the pensieve, I’ll show you. I’ll show you.”

Dumbledore moves slowly across the room, flicking open the familiar cabinet, and Harry gets tentatively to his feet, stepping forward, and looking into the swirling bowl of silver liquid, at the way it shifts one way and then the next. Bringing his wand tip to the side of his temple, he concentrates on the Room of Requirement, on the ashes and cinders, on the stained glass window… And he draws the strand of memory from his skull. It’s a curious sensation, like he’s feeding a liquid right through his skin somehow, and he watches as it settles into the pensieve bowl, exhaling. He can still remember it, but it’s more distant now, hazier… _Thinner_ in his mind.

The tumbling sensation into the pensieve, however, is the same as he’s always remembered, and he stumbles a little when he alights on the ashy floor and his feet go straight through the thick, black dust; Dumbledore remains upright, his hands loosely clasped before his belly.

He watches himself as he comes in through the double doors, watches himself look slowly around… Does he really look that tired? It throws him for a loop, staring at himself like this, in his green casual robes: he sees the dark shadows under his eyes, the fatigue on his face, and his scar, which had always seemed so much more pink and so much more livid than now, is a thin set of lightning-like breaks in the smooth skin, coming down to almost touch his right eyebrow.

The stiff breeze comes forward, brushing back his hair.

“Well, you let me in,” the memory Harry says, and Harry sees him shudder his shoulders awkwardly, shaking his head from side to side.  “What, now you want me out?” Harry points to the lump in the ashes, and he watches as Dumbledore takes a slow step forward, examining the hourglass where it is bared to the air… Harry doesn’t notice anything different from the outside than he had earlier, but when it actually _touches_ him… He hears the sickening sizzle of glass on flesh as it touches his skin, sees the sand throw itself at his hand, sees it seem to burrow right underneath the skin as power crackles on the air, hears himself scream. He whips his head back, the energy crackling over his skin, and he sees his glasses just _hiss_ before falling to the ground, then—

Blackness. The memory goes abruptly black as his skull hits back against the floor, and Harry feels a little dizzy as Dumbledore somehow makes the pensieve rewind itself, leaning in to study the hourglass more closely.

“Well?” Harry asks.

“I haven’t the slightest idea how one would reverse this sort of magic, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore says quietly. “Not without the object in question before me. And even then…” Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Find the hourglass, then.

That’s what Hermione would do.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

When Severus wakes in his bed, he turns onto his side, looking out of the window. The bed beneath him is soft and comfortable, like his bed at Hogwarts, but the pillows are stiff and give his neck a good deal of support. He hadn’t even asked for them – they’d been waiting on the bed when Lucius had shown him to the room last night. He’d unpacked as soon as he’d retired to his bedroom, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe and folding the rest of his things into the chest of drawers, his books neatly stacked upon his dresser.

It’s nicer than his little bunk at Spinner’s End, it’s nicer. The room smells faintly of rose oil, which Lucius sets with many of the candles, and he’s grateful to be able to stay here this summer, but—

He feels slightly ill.

There’d been no dreams, not that he recalls, but he wakes up thinking of Lily, thinking of the ugly word that had ripped its way out between his traitorous teeth, thinks of the way she’d _recoiled_ , the disgust on her face, the hatred—

She loathes him, now. She _loathes_ him, and he deserves it.

What more can he do?

Lying on his side, he wonders if she’ll notice that he isn’t in Cokeworth this summer, if she’ll even be aware that he’s elsewhere instead. They crossed paths often enough, before, even when they didn’t have an appointment to spend time together, and if Mum sees her, maybe she’ll say something, and say where he is.

But that would only play into it, he supposes.

Lucius is a blood supremacist, and Lily knows that as well as Severus does, but he’s the only friend he has _left_ , now.

Sighing, he draws himself from bed, and pulls on his singular pair of casual robes. He hasn’t bothered to unpack any of his Muggle clothes, which rest in the bottom of his trunk: he knows any of the Malfoy family would be horrified and disgusted at the sight of such garments, and he isn’t a fool.

He likes his causal robes. He’d bought them the summer before, at the same time as he’d bought a set of dress robes, and last Christmas, Lucius’ gift had been to get them altered. They’d been plain before, just a stiff, white undershirt with trouser-like black fabric instead of a skirt, and a black outer robe, but Lucius had had buttons sewn all the way along the chest of both the dress and casual set, and Severus… Severus likes it. He finds it calming, to do the buttons up one by one in the morning, quietly meditative…

And if he falls upside down in these, nothing shows.

“Good morning, Severus,” Narcissa says mildly as he enters the dining room, and he glances at her, offering her a thin smile. He had slept very well the night before, and he’s still slightly relaxed and sleepy: the halls of the magnificent building are warm and comfortable, and there’s no stiff draught to force him awake. “You needn’t dress for breakfast so early, you know. None of us will balk at your dressing gown before eight o’clock.”

“I don’t have a dressing gown,” Severus says, taking care to neatly enunciate the words, and Narcissa glances up from her paper, her eyebrows raising artfully.

It occurs to Severus, not for the first time, how at a basic description of “blond and blue-eyed,” one might suspect the Malfoys to look alike, but that is not the case. Narcissa Malfoy’s blonde hair is a beautiful, burnished gold, and her blue eyes are a sparkling colour not dissimilar to shallow water on a golden beach; Lucius’ hair, on the other hand, is almost silver in colour, and his eyes are an icy cold colour that borders on grey. They are, in so many ways, exactly alike, exactly a mirror to one another, and yet not the same, when viewed side-by-side.

“I’ll pick one up for you this morning,” Narcissa says. It doesn’t sound like an offer, but instead a statement of intent, not to be argued with, and yet it makes an uneasy twist of uncertainty stab through Severus’ belly.

“That is hardly necessary,” he says, too stiffly, too rudely, and he sees one of those golden eyebrows arch. “That is to say— Already, you so charitably open your home to me, and for the entire summer, no less. I couldn’t ask you to buy anything I don’t need.”

“Nonsense,” Narcissa says firmly, taking a sip of her morning tea. “You need a dressing gown, and I will buy one for you.” Standing in the doorway, Severus hesitates for a moment longer. He had argued with Lucius, when Lucius had offered to buy him more robes for the summer, and more pyjamas, instead saving money that he scrimped and kept aside during the year, selling balms and potions, or taking a little money for tutoring the younger students, in order to buy everything himself, but… Narcissa isn’t really brooking any room for _argument_ , as Lucius does, and she is the lady of the house – Lucius had said that, that Narcissa is the lady of the house, that he ought bend to her instruction.

“My thanks,” he says, a little lamely. “Where is Lucius?”

“In the greenhouse. If you’re going to him, take breakfast for both of you, and there’s a tea kettle on the side with his coffee.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

“You do now.” Severus frowns. Narcissa doesn’t so much look up from the _Daily Prophet_ as she speaks, but she says it so _firmly_ , and he is a guest, and he oughtn’t argue, particularly not when Lucius had said he was to—

Posh people and their stupid rules, and their nonsense.

“Very well,” he says, finally, and moves toward a tray, taking up a plate of warm croissants that are filled with a mix of cheese and bacon lardons, as well as a few other breakfast things, and the kettle in question. “I— Narcissa?”

“Yes, Severus?”

“Is Malfoy Senior home?”

“No, thank Merlin,” Narcissa says mildly. “Dearest Abraxas is abroad with the cabal.”

“The cabal,” Severus repeats, under his breath: he thinks of the figure Lucius calls _the Dark Lord_ , shrouded in mystery and uncertainty, a tall figure dressed all in black, surrounded by masked men… “Might I do anything for you, Narcissa?”

“Eat breakfast,” Narcissa replies smoothly, and Severus restrains himself from rolling his eyes as he steps from the dining room and through some of the weaving corridors, out toward the grounds.

He has visited Malfoy Manor several times, before now, although he has never stayed overnight before now – he’d gone to their Yuletide Gala last year, and the year before, and he knows Malfoy Manor’s complicated corridors well enough. He’d been all but blown away, when his mother had tersely agreed to let him spend his summer with the Malfoys instead of returning home, expecting her to spitefully refuse, as she had before, but… Well, Father is Merlin knows where, and she enjoys her solitude in the house without him, he supposes. Without Severus, without his father, without anybody. He takes care on the steps, moving out into the bright summer sun, and he looks around the path as he steps out into the neatly kept herb garden, where everything rests in perfectly even rows, and where all manner of flowers and plants bloom beautifully. A few peacocks and guinea fowl wander about his feet as he moves over the white marble of the path, and into the greenhouse.

Lucius’ greenhouse is a thing of beauty, octagonal in its shape and with white edging all about its glass walls and roof; a few paths run along the ground, including a little square in the centre with a small table for two and a couch on which to lounge, and on the second level, hanging plants curtain the walkways and a cushioned swing.

“Good morning, my dearest,” Lucius calls from somewhere behind some cucumber plants.

“I’m not Narcissa,” Severus says, slightly irritably.

“I know,” Lucius replies, laughing at his joke, and Severus rolls his eyes.

“I’ve been instructed to bring you breakfast.” Stepping around the tall plants, which wind neatly around stiff lengths of bamboo, Severus’ gaze alights on Lucius, who is kneeling on a padded cushion to pack fertiliser about some tomato plants, which are heavy with their bright red fruit. “Didn’t know that you had regular plants. Thought it was just magical stuff.”

“Well, tomatoes taste better than dittany and sopophorous beans, Severus,” Lucius replies, and he leans back on his heels, delicately drawing himself to his feet and removing his gloves. He wears an enchanted apron to keep all of the soil from staining his robes, and his hair is tied up loosely at the nape of his neck. Severus watches as he removes his apron, hanging both the apron and gloves upon a silver hook amidst gardening tools and neatly labelled boxes of seeds and potions, and gestures to him. “Come, come,” Lucius says. “We’ll sit outside, in the garden.”

Severus steps back out, squinting slightly in the bright light, and they sit down at a metal table amidst some raised flower beds. Severus shifts his chair to be better settled beneath the parasol, and he looks out over the grounds of Malfoy Manor, which are verdantly green, covering a few meadows, and even an arboretum about a mile’s walk west.

“Did you sleep well?” Lucius asks, taking up a croissant and beginning to cut it into small, bite-sized pieces. Severus studies his hands for a second, and then cautiously takes up his own knife and fork, carefully mimicking the way the older man holds his hands, his arms, his elbows.

“Yes, thank you. Narcissa says she’s going to buy me a dressing gown.”

“That was pleasant of her,” Lucius replies.

“I tried to say no, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Very stubborn, my wife,” Lucius says affectionately.

“And she told me I had to eat breakfast.”

“Yes, she tells me that too.”

Severus brings a small piece of the croissant to his mouth, chewing it in the small, delicate motions that had been demonstrated in the book of etiquette Lucius had sent him last Christmas, and then he swallows. He is aware of Lucius’ eyes on him, and he glances up, meeting Lucius’ gaze. “What?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Lucius murmurs, smiling indulgently. “I’m just glad to have you here, that’s all.”

“Thank you for having me,” Severus says quietly, glancing down at their plates, so that he doesn’t have to look at the smile on Lucius’ face. “In terms of— Etiquette, is there something I’m supposed to do? To thank you and Narcissa?”

“No, not yet,” Lucius says. “You’re our guest, we invited you. Leave a handwritten thank you note and a gift – flowers, perhaps, or chocolates – when you depart, and we shall feign surprise when we find them upon the desk in your bedroom.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Severus says. “Why wouldn’t I just hand them to you when I go?”

“It’s etiquette, my friend, it isn’t about practicality.”

“You going to teach me to walk while I’m here?”

“ _Are_ you,” Lucius corrects. “Stop clipping the verbs from the beginnings of your sentences.”

“Sorry,” Severus says, and he takes another few bites of his croissant. He’s grown used to eating his food like this, in the past few months, at least, but it’s so much _slower_ than it was before, and eating in general takes much longer… But he finds he can eat more, when he eats slower, and he doesn’t ever feel ill even after a rich meal, now. _Etiquette_ , Lucius insists, is mostly about appearing controlled in public, about taking in one’s emotions, about projecting an image of oneself that is neatly pruned, like a rose bush.

“I _am_ going to teach you to walk,” Lucius assents, finally, taking a small sip of his coffee. “I shall place books upon your head, and make you walk one way and that, like a pauper in training to be a princess.”

“Is that meant to be funny?” Severus asks.

“It was _witty_.”

“It wasn’t,” Severus retorts, and Lucius chuckles.

“Moreover,” he continues, “Narcissa is going to teach you a little Occlumency.”

“What’s that?”

“It is a magical art that allows one to better control one’s mind, to order one’s memories and emotions, to better retain a sense of outer impassiveness. Moreover, it will allow you to protect yourself against a Legilimens, should you ever come across one: someone who excels in invading the minds of others, and viewing their thoughts.”

Severus frowns as he listens to Lucius speak, and then he tilts his head slightly to the side, examining the other half of his croissant, not yet eaten. “Why?” Severus asks.

“Narcissa thinks Occlumency will assist you in controlling your temper. It worked for her.”

“No, I mean… Why does _she_ want to teach _me_?”

“I fail to take your meaning,” Lucius says, and Severus lets out an impatient noise, leaning back in his chair hard enough that it releases a quiet _creak_ of its feet on the stone floor, and Lucius shoots him a cutting stare that makes him sit up straight again.

“Just— You know,” Severus mutters. “I comprehend your interest in offering me what charity and good feeling you might, for you have since I was but a boy, and from thereon our relationship has developed. I have accepted you most readily as a willing mentor. But Narcissa I have scarcely spoken to, but to occasionally greet her as we passed one another in a corridor or in the street – I do not comprehend why _she_ should feel compelled to offer me tutelage in frying an egg, let alone in a complex magical art of which I have never heard.”

“Narcissa couldn’t fry an egg with all the tutelage in the world,” Lucius says.

“ _Lucius_ ,” Severus beseeches, and Lucius looks at him with an expression Severus has gotten uncomfortably familiar with over the past few years, and that on most faces might be described as “paternal”. Severus would describe it perhaps as “foppish” or “overinvolved”.

“Narcissa is my wife, Severus, and she knows precisely how much love and affection I hold for you, although she understands it as little as I myself. Besides, she likes you.”

“Does she?” Severus asks, unable to keep the scepticism from his voice. “Why?”

“I ask myself the same question,” Lucius says in the driest tone imaginable, Severus looks back to his croissant, and he begins to take one or two more morsels of it from the plate, more to spare himself from having to respond than because he’s especially hungry.

They eat for a while longer, and Severus listens as Lucius idly speaks on how he’s been occupying himself on this lazy Sunday in the greenhouses, and before that, in his aviary. He likes listening to Lucius speak – he is used to reading his neat and looping script once a week, but hearing his voice much less often, only during the holidays, and it’s a soothing sound… Will his voice be that soothing, when he works out the oddities in his accent, forces it into something more resembling Lucius’? When it is clipped and delicately forged, not so obviously _regional_?

“How many sets of robes do you have?” Lucius asks as they stand – Severus expect Lucius to leave the tray on the table for the house elves to collect, but instead, he sets it to hover on the air beside them, bringing it up the path.

“Other than my Hogwarts robes? Just this one, and my dress robes.”

“You’ll need more than that,” Lucius says. “We’ll go to Madam Malkin’s in an hour or so and get you two more sets tailored – nothing audacious, of course, just two sets of black robes made to your preference. Do you like that button motif on the chest? I think it might work on the sleeves as well, you know.”

“I can’t afford new robes,” Severus says. “And I’m not letting _you_ buy ‘em for me.”

“Buy what now?”

“Buy _them_ ,” Severus mutters, enunciating the “th” sound as clearly as he dares.

“You can pay me back later,” Lucius says airily.

“How?”

“With your wages.”

“What _wages_?”

“Well, I imagine Mr Mulpepper will give them to you,” Lucius says casually. “Such things are traditional, even with a summer employee.” Severus furrows his brow, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Mr Mulpepper owns an apothecary on Diagon Alley, but—

“Summer employee?” Severus repeats. “But… But all the apothecaries only take people that are of age, they don’t have— I’m only sixteen.”

“Fortunately,” Lucius says, “you had someone vouch for your competence and your care. I could not tell you _whom_ , of course.” Severus stops short in the corridor as they step into the manor, and Lucius turns to look at him with a smug smile on his face. It’s an unbearable expression, _utterly_ unbearable, and Severus can barely stand the bubbling heat in his chest, the gratitude, the _joy_. “It is no law that prevents an apothecary from taking an underage apprentice, you know, as brewing isn’t prohibited under the— _Oof_.”

Severus has never, in his life, initiated a hug. His father was never to be touched without his express invitation; his mother has always been rather uncomfortable with too much physical contact, and only ever held him when it seemed truly inescapable; Lily had initiated every hug that had ever passed between them, and after his conduct this June past, he knows she will likely never initiate a hug with him again.

He is aware of the slight height difference between he and Lucius, who is a tall and strapping man with broad shoulders and a form stacked with muscle beneath his flowing robes, aware of the sharpness of his chin against Lucius’ chest, of the stiffness of Lucius’ body where Severus holds it tightly. Lucius seems to relax slightly, and he hugs Severus back, his chin touching against the side of his hair, his hand delicately patting Severus’ shoulders, to which he does his best not to flinch.

“You din’t have to do that,” Severus mumbles, his posh accent dropped at the wayside, his words muffled by the silk of Lucius’ robe front besides. He’s too thin for this, and too bony, and he knows he must smell of ink and that, but Lucius makes no complaint, and does not draw away. Severus can feel how _warm_ he is. “ _Thank you_.”

“Quite alright,” Lucius murmurs, touching the side of Severus’ shoulder and looking at him affectionately as he pulls away. Severus remembers when he’d just been a first year, looking up at Lucius as he spoke on his behalf to one of the older Slytherins, trailing around after him as if Lucius was his father instead of just Head Boy, listening to him as he lectured Severus on subject after subject… His icy eyes look slightly misty, and Severus notes it as he delicately daubs at one of them with a handkerchief as he draws away, although his voice remains entirely steady. “Come, you idiot child. I’ll show you to the library, as my beautiful garden seems to have left you unenthused.”

“It’s outside,” Severus says.

“Yes, I recall your aversion,” Lucius says, roughly ruffling Severus’ hair and making him wrinkle his nose, and he follows him up the stairs as a house elf takes their breakfast tray.

“I’ve never had a job before,” Severus says.

“Nor I,” Lucius says.

“Oh, shut up, you toff. I meant— What—”

“Mr Mulpepper will prime you on your responsibilities. You’ll primarily be organising the shelves and brewing some of the more in demand potions – he and his apprentice will retain responsibility of the front of house. I said you were more keen on brewing than on customer service.”

A job. A job!

“For the whole summer?” Severus asks.

“For seven weeks,” Lucius says. “Your last week is free for you to laze about as you please.”

“Every day?”

“Five days a week, and half days on Saturdays.”

“How am I going to get there?”

“You can Floo.”

“Is th—”

“Severus,” Lucius says, chuckling quietly. “You can ask Mr Mulpepper all of these questions tomorrow. In the meantime, I will show you to the library.” Severus can’t help the bright grin on his face, the excitement, and he all but skips up the stairs. A job. A job! A _real_ job, real work, real pay, real potions, real—

“Thank you,” he says again, and Lucius smiles.

“It is nothing, Severus,” he replies easily, but Severus feels himself exhale. Not just a summer of reading in peace, not stuck in the dismal grim of Cokeworth or avoiding his parents, but staying at the Malfoys’, and with a _job_ … It’s not nothing. It’s _everything_.

“I’m very grateful for you, Lucius,” Severus murmurs.

“Such affection,” Lucius says, laughing softly to himself. “I should procure backbreaking labour for you more often.”

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“If I could have— If I go and look in the place where that hourglass was, and I found it, would you be able to send me back? To the future?”

“It is possible,” Dumbledore murmurs. “But I fear you have greater faith in my abilities than I, Mr Potter. I have read about temporal magic, that much is true, but to send somebody so many years in the future, why, you might age spontaneously – you might even die.”

“That’s my problem,” Harry says.

“And yet, how am I to trust that you truly _are_ a figure from the future, young man? Who is to say you are not a spy of Lord Voldemort’s, spelled to look after James Potter?”

“D’you see a Dark Mark on my arm?” Harry asks, pulling up his left sleeve. “Your phoenix flew right into my arms and kissed me on the face, do you think he does that to Death Eaters often?”

“Fawkes might be enchanted,” Dumbledore says, and Harry grits his teeth, and _does not_ roll his eyes. “Veritaserum, perhaps, but if you are any sort of Occlumens, you might resist it. Ditto Legilimency itself.”

Harry turns away from Dumbledore, and he lets his gaze flit over the various magical implements and devices upon the shelves, trying to remember if any of them can be used for detecting dark magic, or dark intentions. None of it looks like a Foe-glass, or something similar, but… His gaze alights on the Sorting Hat, its leathery eyes closed in sleep. The Sorting Hat, that could vouch for him, but—

“What if I could prove my intentions were noble?” Harry says, having no idea if it’ll work.

“And how might you prove that?” Harry takes a slow step forward, and he picks up the Hat. He’d have to… Surely, if he pulls the Sword of Gryffindor out, he should be able to put it back in again, so he can get it again in ’92? Merlin, that _thought_ makes his head hurt. But—

The Sorting Hat is light in his hand, and he closes his eyes, shoving his arm into the hat’s brim. He’s had it before, hasn’t he? Surely that counts for something – he’s a Gryffindor at heart, he _is_ , and he remembers the weight of the sword’s hilt, the jewels encrusted on the gold, the shine of the blade—

Exhaling in relief, he feels the cold of the sword in his hand, and he draws it out with a thin _shhhk_ of sound, holding it aloft. The sword of Gryffindor is the same as it ever was, shining brightly in the summer light that filters in through the windows.

Dumbledore peers down at him from over his glasses, his brow furrowed.

“Mr Potter,” he says. “Are you _known_ , by any chance, for your surprising endeavours, in the future?”

“You could say that,” Harry says, a little evasively. “You mind if I go look around?” Dumbledore carefully takes the sword from Harry’s hands, examining it with care, and at length, he allows Harry to go, with the assurance that he will be coming for him within the hour.

The Room of Requirement’s door is waiting for him when he arrives, and he opens up the door, staring—

The Room of Hidden Things is exactly how it had been the first time he’d entered in his Sixth Year, hoping to hide Snape’s potions text book, the room _full_ , and he has a moment of desperate, abstract oddity, trying to convince himself that this is normal, that this is… Of course it’d be like this, in the past, of course it wouldn’t have all the ashes and burnt cinders, of course it would be…

But it’s so strange.

He sees stacks and stacks of cauldrons; he sees all manner of books in messy piles; he sees fabrics and rugs and tapestries; he sees the Vanishing Cabinet; he sees the suits of armour… It’s all still here, all of it.

Laying his wand on his palm, he says, “ _Point me_.” His wand immediately points north, which is somewhere to the left of the door, and he takes a note of it so that he knows which direction to walk in, if he gets lost in the stacks of junk and hidden things… “Accio, hourglass!” he declares, flicking his wand.

Nothing happens.

But then, he hadn’t expected it to.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Some time later – Harry doesn’t know how long, but he knows it has been longer than an hour – the door slowly opens, and Harry glances back to see Dumbledore in the doorway, looking at the spread of objects. Harry, exhausted, dusty, and with neck aching from craning forward and rifling through piles of stuff, sits on a stool in the middle of everything.

“This storage room isn’t usually here,” Dumbledore says.

“No,” Harry agrees.

“Did you find it?” Dumbledore asks.

“No. So— That… That means I’m trapped here, right? I mean, if you can’t send me anywhere else, I can’t…” Harry slowly stands to his feet, and his gaze is caught by a familiar bust on the table beside him. Shining in the light on top of it, its silver untarnished, he looks at the diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. He thinks, for a second, that maybe he should feel something – a dark and ugly energy, or some sort of aura… But he feels nothing. Nothing, except knowledge of what exactly he’s looking at, and a distant disgust. “What would you do, if you were me? If you were thrown back into the past, by twenty years? Oh, more than that, I guess. How old is he now, fifty?”

Dumbledore says nothing as Harry slowly picks his way forward, stepping over piles of books, thinking out loud, and adding, “He was born 1926, right? So… Fifty— When’s his birthday, when was he born?”

“The thirty-first of December,” Dumbledore says, quietly. “If it is Lord Voldemort to whom you refer.”

“Thirty-first,” Harry repeats, quietly, thinking of the prophecy, thinking of being matched against Lord Voldemort in so many ways… They’d both been orphans, hadn’t they? They’d both been Parseltongues… And he’d been a monster. Voldemort had been a monster, hadn’t he, even as a child? The rabbit, hanging from the ceiling… “We need to, um. Come up with a plan of… A plan of action, I suppose.”

He comes to a stop before the other man, and he looks at him, up at his wizened features, the curiosity in his eyes, the distant uncertainty…

“What would you do?” Harry asks, softly. “If you were thrown back to when he was just a teenager again, would you do anything differently? Even if it meant— I don’t know, that you might die, would you risk it? Because I don’t think… Professor Dumbledore, I don’t know if I could just live out here, knowing what I know, and not do anything.”

“What do you know?” Dumbledore asks, softly. “Who _are_ you, Mr Potter?”

“Harry,” he corrects, softly. “You always… You always called me Harry, in staff meetings. Flitwick told me. They told you off, for favouritism. I know that wasn’t you, that that hasn’t happened, yet, but…”

“Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs, quietly. “You speak, my boy, as if you know things about Lord Voldemort. Things that might lead to his defeat.”

“I think,” Harry says, slowly, “I think maybe… Maybe I shouldn’t tell you. You’ll know who I am, when— when it comes up. You’ll know I survive enough to come back to the past. So if I… If I just do stuff, quietly, and you don’t know what it is, you don’t have to be cursed by that foreknowledge. Stuff can just happen like it’s supposed to happen.”

“I’d rather you told me.”

“Have you found any of the other Hallows yet?” Harry asks. Dumbledore’s face changes, just slightly, his cheeks paling. “Yeah, you see. You trust me enough, in the future, that I know stuff… Stuff like that. You’d do it, wouldn’t you? If you were thrown back into the past by thirty years, would you do something? Before h could—”

“I don’t think about such things, Harry,” Dumbledore says, his voice soft and kind.

“You’re a liar, Professor Dumbledore,” Harry replies.

“In the event that you were to… Do whatever it is you’re thinking of, how long would it take you?”

“I know… I know a few parts of it.” The diadem, right behind him; the locket. He knows where they are, both of them. The diary, Voldemort probably has that; Hufflepuff’s cup, he isn’t sure; the ring… The ring, he’d worn the ring at Hogwarts, but _then_ he’d gone back to the shack, and hidden it, hadn’t he? Did he do that right away? “Does he wear a ring, Lord Voldemort?”

“A ring? He wore one at school, as a young man, an affectation he took on later in life. Just a plain stone in a band. I don’t know if he still wears it. Why, is it important?” Dumbledore asks.

“No, not really,” Harry says. “And— I think I can do it.”

“Do what?”

“Kill him,” Harry says. Dumbledore stares at him.

“Young man,” he says, finally, I—

“Professor,” Harry says. “I’ve already done it. I— _I_ defeated Lord Voldemort, okay? You don’t need to know the hows or the whys, because like I said, you’ll know what you need to know when it comes around, but for now… I know how to defeat him. And if I’m stuck in the past, if I’m stuck here, I should do it, right? I should do it now. Kill him.”

“Murder is a complicated thing, Harry,” Dumbledore murmurs. “And yet you say it so easily.”

“I couldn’t kill anyone else,” Harry says. “I don’t think. I couldn’t kill… A Death Eater, or a person, I couldn’t kill anyone else, but him— I could kill him.”

“There are rumours as to his immortality,” Dumbledore says, expectantly. When Harry doesn’t respond, Dumbledore asks, “How long did it take you? To do these things that lead to his demise?”

“Um,” Harry thinks. “I think a year. Around a year.”

“You could do it once more, then? In a year?”

“Um,” Harry says, slowly. “Maybe. Maybe, I think so.”

“But I don’t know that you _ought_ keep all you know secret,” Dumbledore murmurs. “In the event you are killed halfway through your tasks, how might I complete them? What if you have rendered them impossible to complete as once I did? If you are to attempt to change this past about us, to forge a new future, you ought tell me the exact nature of what you are to do.”

“Compromise, then. A year. Give me a year, to do this, and help me if I ask you… And after the year, if I haven’t done it, you know, we’ll— I’ll do everything your way. I’ll tell you everything.”

“A year is a long time,” Dumbledore murmurs.

“Sure,” Harry says. “But what have you got to lose? People are dying anyway, and you’ve got no hope, right now. You’ve got nothing. This... is something.”

Dumbledore looks down at him for a long few moments, his lips shifting, thinning, and then he says, “What house were you sorted into, Harry?”

“I wasn’t a true Hatstall,” Harry says. “But the Hat was torn between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Comes across, doesn’t it?”

“You drive a difficult bargain,” Dumbledore murmurs. “And yet…” He hesitates, just a for a moment, looking down at Harry. When he speaks, it is more cautiously, his eyes settling faraway for a moment, and then he says, “It occurs to me that few would know me so well, and not find me quite unbearable.”

“Oh, you’re unbearable,” Harry says quietly. Again, that swirl of complicated feeling he’d been doing his best not to feel in the aftermath of the battle makes itself known. How _does_ he feel about Dumbledore?

It doesn’t matter.

That Dumbledore doesn’t exist yet.

“I need an identity,” Harry says quietly.

“We’ll discuss it,” Dumbledore murmurs, “on our way back to the infirmary.”


	4. Chapter Four: Crystallisation

“This isn’t the infirmary,” Harry says as Dumbledore pushes him gently by the shoulder toward the door marked **STAFF ROOM** in brass letters.

“Very astute of you, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore says brightly, and pushes the door open. “Minerva!” McGonagall, who is seated beside an open window and idly paging through a glossy book, glances up when she sees Harry, jumps slightly in her chair, then seems to realize he _isn’t_ James, and relaxes slightly.

“Albus,” she says slowly. “Who is this?”

“This,” Dumbledore says, with a flourish, “is our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Harry feels himself balk. “What? No, no, no—”

“We have a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” McGonagall says, cutting through Harry’s protestations and speaking in the most even tone imaginable – the tone of somebody very well-used to Albus Dumbledore. “Professor Sylvester.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore agrees. “But is it or is it not true, Minerva, that Gertrude was complaining about the amount of work such a position would be? That she was uncertain about marking essays, hm, whilst pursuing her own experimentation? Harry here will be her assistant.”

“Have you graduated from your own education, _Harry_?” McGonagall asks, her tone chill.

“In a manner of speaking,” Harry says.

“That’s encouraging. Are you a Potter?”

“I—”

“Minerva, that was actually what I wished to discuss with you,” Dumbledore says, slowly pushing the door shut behind him. “You see, Mr Potter here is a person of interest. We can’t allow for him to be linked back to his family at all.”

“Are you indeed?” McGonagall asks.

“Apparently,” Harry says, through gritted teeth.

“What manner of Transfiguration might be done, do you think, to disguise his features? To make him look less like the other Potters, I mean?”

“Albus,” McGonagall says, very slowly. “What is going on?”

“Minerva, trust me.”

“I do trust you. I do not, however, _understand_ why—”

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry says, breaking through. “I— I know that, um, that Professor Dumbledore, as usual, has kind of sprung something insane on you, but… This isn’t for some kind of weird scheme he has going with the Flamels or some other friend of his,”

“The Flamels?” Dumbledore repeats from behind him, but Harry ignores it.

“It’s for the war. It’s to do with Lord V— You-Know-Who.” McGonagall looks him up and down, her jaw set, her slightly wide eyes the only indication that she’s taking in what he’s saying. “It’ll just be a year, and then I’ll be out of everybody’s hair. I’ll duel you, if you want me to prove it – I don’t think I could beat you or Professor Flitwick, but I can hold my own. And not with Dark Magic,” he adds hurriedly, when he sees the shadow pass over her face. “I don’t need it.”

“He’s confident,” McGonagall says acidly.

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry says quietly, doing his best to make his tone as serious as he can, “I don’t want to come across as arrogant, it’s just—” McGonagall puts up one hand, and Harry lets his mouth fall shut as she examines him with a critical expression on her face.

“He’s the spitting image of young James Potter. Shorter, of course, and with that scar… What’s that scar from?” McGonagall’s tone is abruptly businesslike, and Harry stands very still as she comes forward, examining him with a critical eye.

“It’s a Curse scar,” Harry murmurs. “Blemish charms won’t work on it, nor will most creams. And the hair won’t—”

“The hair won’t be charmed into neatness, I know,” McGonagall mutters. “It’s a Potter trait – not even Sleekeazy will keep it in check.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry murmurs, feeling abruptly stupid. _It’s a Potter trait_ – that’s not the same as _Your father’s hair was just like it_. No one’s ever said that to him before, not like that. _It’s a Potter trait_ , that’s familial, that’s… Harry thinks back to the vision he’d once seen in the Mirror of Erised, of all his family, people with the same knees, the same chins, the same _hair_ …

“We can change the colour, though,” McGonagall murmurs. “A magical dye will be easy enough to procure – a sandy colour would work, or red…” _Not red_ , Harry wants to say. He thinks of the photographs of his mother, of the way her red hair will catch in front of her eyes in the photographs, of… _Not red_. “It’s mostly your face we’ll want to change. The chin. The cheekbones. That will probably be enough, with the dyed hair.”

“Will that transfiguration need to be ongoing?” Harry asks, quietly. “I mean, will I have to retransfigure it every day, or…?”

“No,” McGonagall murmurs, shaking her head. “No, I can transfigure it initially, and you can take a setting potion each morning to retain it.”

“And Professor Sn—” Harry stops himself, aware of the way that McGonagall is looking at him, suspicion plain on her face. “Professor Slughorn,” he corrects, slowly. “Would he brew that for me?”

“For a price, perhaps,” McGonagall mutters, prompting Dumbledore to tut his disapproval, and Harry feels himself snigger.

“Yeah, I know Professor Slughorn’s deal.”

“A setting potion isn’t complicated,” McGonagall murmurs. “You can probably brew it yourself. Albus, may I have a word?”

“I’ll go to the infirmary, shall I?” Harry says, already stepping back and reaching for the door, and Dumbledore glances at him, then at McGonagall. He doesn’t wait for Dumbledore to answer, and instead moves out into the corridor, moving quickly along.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Severus sits with his legs crossed neatly beneath him, his book open in his lap, and unread. Outside, he can see Lucius crouching on the ground, stroking his fingers over the side of a bird’s neck – this is a peacock, Severus thinks, but instead of being vibrant blues and greens, it’s white, with the markings on its tail feathers a stark black. The animals are beautiful, and it’s plain that they like Lucius, because they all flock around him and press their heads into his palms, let him touch them, lift them off the ground, drag his fingers through their feathers.

The doves look fragile in Lucius’ hands, small and plump and delicate where they rest in his big palms, but the peacocks seem ridiculously big, much bigger than birds have any right to be, as far as Severus is concerned.

He does like them, though.

He likes watching them prance back and forth, loves to see them dance over the grass and call to one another, and even _fight_ with one another, although one of the geese will usually break them apart, if they start.

“I could watch him for hours,” Narcissa says from behind him, and Severus turns to glance at her, taking his attention away from the great bay windows. “I keep wondering if the children will have his dab hand with animals.”

“It’s not genetic,” Severus says. “You just have to learn to be respectful of their space, and to let them come to you… To study what they do. You’re not one of them, that’s true enough, but that’s no reason you can’t learn their rules.”

“You sound so much better when you don’t think too much about it,” Narcissa says, and the sofa cushion shifts slightly as she sits at the other end, gracefully laying her folded hands on her leant-together knees, her chin raised, her back against the cushions. “You do sound awfully stunted, when you make yourself anxious over whether what you’re saying is aristocratic enough.”

Severus bites the inside of his lip to keep from snapping some nasty reply, gathering his robe skirt under one hand and tightening his fist.

“Very good,” Narcissa murmurs, shooting him an appraising glance. “What do you think of, to keep yourself calm?”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it the pain?” Narcissa asks smoothly. “Are you biting your tongue, digging your fingernails into your arm, or into your thigh?”

Severus stares at her, finding himself surprised, utterly taken aback. Hesitating for a long moment, he mulls over exactly how he wants to respond, but he’s sure that his answer must show in his features even if he doesn’t lend it voice, and that’s frustrating, because he wishes he could take up a neutral expression like Narcisssa seems to have on… “Yeah,” he says, finally. “I mean, yes. But I can’t do it like you, or like Lucius does. I can’t freeze my face entirely.”

“That is a matter only of practice,” Narcissa replies, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. Severus follows her gaze to Lucius, who has come away from the peacocks now (although they trail after him about ten feet back) and is walking in the direction of the stables. Severus glances at the clock on the wall, which declares it to be some time past nine. “Feeding the hunting dogs,” Narcissa says.

“He doesn’t hunt.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He keeps game fowl, and has deer on the land, and he has hunting dogs and horses, even knows how to use a crossbow and to make up little nooses and traps with rope… And he doesn’t hunt.” Severus knows he doesn’t, and he’s fairly certain Lucius has never killed an animal in his _life_ , except to put an ill one down, despite his big talk about the importance of nature’s law. He’d probably intervene if he thought a _deer_ might die, let alone watch a chicken or a cow go to slaughter.

( _But Muggles are different, aren’t they? What does he do to them, when **he’s** “abroad with the cabal”? Would he really treat a Muggle so much worse than a dog?)_

“Nor does Abraxas,” Narcissa says. “Although for him, it’s sheer laziness.”

“He’s _soft_ ,” Severus says, unable to keep the acid and ill-taste from his voice, but if Narcissa notices, she doesn’t show it.

“Lucius? At home, yes. Are you ready to begin?”

“Do we have to start today?”

“The sooner, the better.”

“Don’t— _I_ don’t want anybody else in my head.”

“No,” Narcissa agrees immediately, shaking her head slightly and meeting Severus’ gaze. “Legilimency, Severus, is a magic used to invade the mind, to plunder its secrets… When done properly, no one but an Occlumens should ever realise its use. The Legilimens simply dips into the person’s upper layer of thoughts, reads what he might, all while maintaining an outward neutrality, that no one should suspect his behaviours. Later in the summer, if you wish, I or Lucius might test your abilities with Legilimency, if you ask us, but the important thing is for you to be able to create a clarity of your own. This is to organise your own thoughts, to better your self-control. Were our primary goal to defend you from Legilimency, you’re right, we’d start there, but as it stands…”

Severus digests this information, turning it over in his head. Distantly, he can hear the howls and yips of the fox hounds as they’re released from the kennels, and the different pitch of the greyhounds’ barks as they join in the noise.

Every morning, Lucius does various exercises to keep himself in shape, but every evening, he goes for long walks on the manor’s grounds, sometimes at a leisurely pace, sometimes running. Now and then, Severus knows, he rides. The dogs go with him, falling over themselves to walk with the pack, and it occurs to Severus that for the first time, he might actually be able to see Lucius coming over a hill with his crest of dogs around his ankles, instead of just imagining it painted in oils.

“We have to go somewhere else?” he asks, and at Narcissa’s marginal head tilt, he corrects himself. “ _Do_ we have to go somewhere else?”

“No,” Narcissa murmurs, flicking her wand at window and murmuring a few words: the noises from outside peter off into silence, leaving just the two of them in the quiet of the room. “No, we can stay right here. Turn to face me, Severus, and make yourself comfortable – sit with your legs crossed or folded underneath you, whatever’s best.”

Slowly, Severus shifts his position, sitting cross-legged with his chin raised, his hands on his knees.

“Alright,” Narcissa murmurs, her gaze meeting Severus’, and he can see the turquoise colour of her eyes. He sees the aristocratic curve of her sharp chin, her prim, pointed nose, her high cheekbones, the soft pink of her lips. She’s meant to be very pretty.

Severus has heard other people talking about Narcissa, especially since her and Lucius got married in ’74, just before Christmas. Severus had been allowed to go, had seen Narcissa in her flowing white robes and her laced bodice and her carefully braided hair, and he had seen Lucius in his vibrantly green dress robes, silver woven across his vest and shining in the braids of his own hair, complimenting the gold in Narcissa’s outfit… Everyone had said how beautiful she was, repeatedly, again, and again.

 _Isn’t she radiant?_ _Merlin, she’s heavenly_.

And the boys in his year have certainly sung her praises, have talked about how lovely she is, wondered what she’s like under her robes… She’s meant to be very pretty.

“Close your eyes,” Narcissa instructs, her hands on her own knees as she sits cross-legged like he does, and Severus obeys. “Be aware of your breathing. You don’t need to breathe to a certain rhythm or anything: just be conscious of it, the movement of your lungs, your nose, your mouth.”

He’s… aware. He feels his breathing slow down as he concentrates on it, as he takes in one breath and then exhales. He can feel his chest expand as his lungs inflate, feel the air rush quietly past his nostrils on every exhalation.

“Very good,” Narcissa murmurs. “Now, clear your mind.”

“Clear it?” Severus repeats.

“Empty it of every thought. You’re a potioneer, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then consider. A dark cauldron, filled with a base of water, brought to a simmer. Imagine the rippling on the water’s surface, unbroken but shifting, the heat contained beneath… You are the simmer, Severus. Imagine the brim of the cauldron, its black lip, your complete immersion in hot water: you are naught but water.” Narcissa’s voice is quietly hypnotic, and the picture she paints is vivid: Severus can just imgine it, submerged beneath the surface of the water, blackness on every side—

How had she known he was much for potions? How much, Severus wonders, has Lucius actually told her about him? Does Narcissa know as much about him as Lucius does, does he tell her everything?

He doesn’t want anybody knowing about him, not really – Lucius has managed to insinuate himself in the most irritating way possible, but that’s different, that’s _Lucius_ , Lucius isn’t Narcissa.

Severus opens his eyes.

“It takes time,” Narcissa murmurs. “Once you clear your mind, you become taken with other thoughts, follow those trains wherever they may lead.”

Severus sets his jaw, but before he is required to reply, the door clicks open, and Lucius appears in the doorway, his hand loosely settled on the door handle. There is a slight flush on his cheeks, a pinkness showing beneath the marble white.

“Shall you to Diagon Alley with us, Narcissa?” he asks, and Narcissa smiles.

“I think so, yes,” she says, with a delicate inclination of her head.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“You’re back,” Pomfrey says.

“Yes,” Harry agrees. There’s a second that passes between them, as they each get the measure of one another: Pomfrey examines Harry very critically, as if looking for some sign of further injury that she can have a go at, and he returns her attention, hoping she won’t find anything.

“Cup of tea?” Pomfrey asks, finally.

“Oh, I’d love one,” Harry says. “Thank you.”

“How old are you?” Pomfrey asks as she gestures for him to follow her, leading him into her office. He’s never been inside before, despite all the nights he’s spent in the infirmary, and he takes in the desk and the cot at the edge of the room, the anatomical diagrams animated upon the walls. He doesn’t know how people manage it, to get work done with posters moving at the corner of your vision all the time. “Twenty-three, twenty-four?”

“Is that how old I look?” Harry asks quietly. Pomfrey turns to glance at him, her eyebrows raising. “Uh, eighteen. Just turned, yesterday.”

“Oh, I see,” Pomfrey says, seeming surprised, and Harry turns to look at himself in the mirror, at the dark bags under his eyes, at the exaggerated shadow under his cheekbones… He’s thin, he supposes. That’s why his jawline looks so exaggerated, and his eyes so serious.

“That’s the war for you,” Harry murmurs. “Six years in, aren’t we? Thereabouts.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you were fighting as a child,” Pomfrey says, and the horror shines through in her voice, which quavers slightly. She doesn’t look at Harry, and instead focuses on the kettle and cups.

“Just milk, please,” Harry says as she pours the tea.

“Ah, you’re here,” Dumbledore says from the doorway.

“Yes,” Harry says. “I said I would come here.”

“Albus,” Pomfrey says. “This young man—”

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, and he gestures for McGonagall to step into the room before he pulls the door shut with a quiet _click_.

The conversation happens kind of over Harry’s head. He could probably involve himself, if he really wanted to, but he finds he lacks the wherewithal, the energy, to interrupt anybody as they talk about him – he’s a stranger to all three of them, and yet already Pomfrey acts as if he’s something to be taken care of. She’s a good woman, Poppy Pomfrey. She always was… would be? Is.

Harry takes a long sip of his tea as he hears McGonagall ask if Pomfrey has any setting potion to hand, and Pomfrey says that she has a little.

“Is she a member of the Order?” Harry asks Dumbledore when Pomfrey leaves the room for a second. McGonagall stares at him, her mouth falling open, and then she glares at Dumbledore, indignation and anger showing on her face.

“She isn’t,” Dumbledore says quietly.

“She should be.”

“Is there anyone that _shouldn’t_ be?” Dumbledore asks.

“There’s one threat I can think of,” Harry says. “But I wouldn’t worry about him yet. He’s still in Hogwarts.”

“Albus,” McGonagall says. “Who _is_ this boy?”

Almost automatically, Harry turns his cup over, and he swirls it three times in a circle over the saucer. McGonagall stares down at his hands as he lets the excess liquid drain from the cup.

The door opens up again, and Pomfrey steps inside.

“What do you want me to say?” Harry asks quietly. “That I want to Scoil Eala Dubh, or to Beauxbatons? That’s gonna fall down quickly, isn’t it? Because I don’t speak Irish, and I don’t speak French. I did my O.W.L.s.”

“And your N.E.W.T.s?” McGonagall asks.

“For the past year,” Harry says, choosing his words very carefully, “Lord Voldemort has been doing his level best to kill me. I had to go on the run, and I wasn’t able to sit my N.E.W.T.s. Just sat my sixth year.”

“And why, pray, would he want to kill _you_?” McGonagall asks.

“Well,” Harry says. “He killed my parents. He’s the kind of guy that likes collecting things… He’d like the whole set, I think. That’s why I had private tutelage, from—” Inventing it isn’t difficult. There are half-truths available to him, easy not-quite-lies that present themselves for his approval, that he can just sweep out of the air. He feels a little ill. “My godfather, and some friends of my mum and dad. But they’re all dead now, too. My friends. My teachers. Everybody I could trust, except for Professor Dumbledore, is gone. Dead, or vanished into the ether. I didn’t mean to come here, Professor McGonagall. Circumstances just… lead to it.”

“What does your cup say?” McGonagall asks: she asks it in the same way that most people would level an accusation, or a threat. Harry feels himself smile.

“You don’t care for divination, Professor McGonagall. To be honest, I don’t either. I guess I’m just hoping that I’m gonna turn this cup over and see a sign of good fortune.” Exhaling, Harry picks up the cup, and he turns it, settling it with a quiet click on the saucer.

Surveying the contents, he sees several mountains on the left side of the cup – that means powerful enemies. “Yeah, thanks for that, cup,” Harry wants to say. “Tell me something I _don’t_ know.” He sees a little smudge of leaves that might be a fish – good news from abroad – but that Harry is sure, with a sickly feeling, is not a fish, and is in fact, a shark – a symbol of death. Wiggly lines – a difficult journey. A cross: trouble, problems, or… death.

In the very corner, made up of just a tiny bit of leaves, however, Harry sees a little L shape. The foot is too thick for it to be an L, though.

“You see that, Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asks, pointing it with his fingernail. “That’s an axe. It means problems overcome.”

“What else is in the cup?” Pomfrey asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says. “The best way to pursue prophecy is to reach for the bits you like, and desperately ignore the ones you don’t.”

“That’s very honest of you,” McGonagall says. “Are you ready for this?” McGonagall’s wand is in her hand, and Harry slowly pulls himself up to his feet, raising his chin and steeling himself. “Are you going to keep the name?”

“Harry, yeah. Are there many Evanses at Hogwarts this year?”

“Two,” Dumbledore says mildly. “Both Muggleborn, unrelated.” _And one of them’s my Mum._

“Evans it is, then,” Harry says.

“Evans,” McGonagall repeats, looking sceptical.

“Well, what do you think I should use? Weasley?” Harry asks, and he shakes his head. “Better people think I’m a Muggleborn.”

“I’ll alter your face,” McGonagall murmurs. “Albus and I discussed it, and I will change your jaw and your cheekbones somewhat, slightly change the shape of your lips and your nose. For now, we’ll leave your hair as it is. You’ll hardly be the only member of the Hogwarts staff that orders hair dye, so I shouldn’t worry about that…”

“Will it hurt?” Harry asks.

“It will be uncomfortable,” McGonagall murmurs. “And it will take some getting used to. But I had to use transfigurations like these a great deal, when I was training to become an Animagus.”

“As if it was your transfiguration skill I was worried about,” Harry mutters, and he raises his chin, looking up at her. “Okay. Do— Do what needs doing, I guess. Thank you.”

“We do as we must, Mr Evans,” McGonagall murmurs, her voice still stiff: he doesn’t miss the way she glances to Dumbledore as she says it. But that doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to like him, or to trust him. None of that matters.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“You like the buttons on the chest, then?” Madam Malkin asks mildly, and Severus nods his head as he shifts slightly on his feet. He’d never stepped onto the tailor’s stool before Lucius had brought him in the year before, and he’s almost grateful that she had never met him as an eleven-year-old. There is a way that some people look at him now that he’s adjusted the way that he speaks, the way that he holds himself, even if the transformation isn’t quite complete.

They hated him before, when he was lower class, and brittle. They hate him even more now that he’s trying to be something he’s not.

“Yes,” Severus says. “I wasn’t sure initially, when Lucius mentioned the buttons on the sleeves, but now I see them, I really like them. They look very smart.” In the mirror, he sees Madam Malkin’s lips shift slightly into a smile, and Severus looks at his own figure in the mirror, at the stiff set of his shoulders. The buttons run from the Chinese collar all the way down to the ankle-height hem of the stiff fabric, and now more buttons are pinned in place from the elbow to the wrist. “Thank you, Madam Malkin.”

“They do look very smart,” Malkin murmurs, giving an approving nod of her head. “And you’re certain you wouldn’t want anything with a little more give in it? This fabric is so coarse: it can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“The underpiece is softer, and besides that, I like how stiff it is,” Severus murmurs. “It reminds me to keep my posture.”

“You don’t seem like a young man who needs reminding of such things,” Malkin says, and Severus feels himself stiffen slightly, but there’s a slight smile on her face even still – she’s teasing, that’s all. “Very well, Mr Snape – if you want to hop down, I’ll tailor those two new casual sets, and I’ll add the sleeve buttons to the dress robes you brought with you. You ought be able to take those home tomorrow afternoon, after you finish at work. I can do the sleeve alteration on the robes you were wearing today whenever is convenient, perhaps later in the week. Are you certain you won’t need any more underpieces?”

“I think I’m alright for now,” Severus murmurs, stepping down. “Thank you very much, Mrs Malkin.”

“It’s always a pleasure to tailor for you, Mr Snape,” Malkin says absentmindedly as she hands back his regular robe for him to put back on. “You don’t fidget like the other boys do.”

“Oh,” Severus says. He is aware, distantly, that he isn’t supposed to respond to things with sounds like “oh” or “um” or anything along those lines, but it tumbles out before he has the chance to think of anything else. “Thank you, Madam Malkin.” This seems stunted, and like it isn’t the correct thing to say, but he isn’t sure what else would be appropriate. He likes to have a script for things, likes to be able to rehearse exactly how a conversation will go, and this— This is unexpected.

“Mr Malfoy,” Malkin says warmly as they step back into the main room, just as Severus is buttoning up the last part of his collar. He can do this very fast now, although he usually likes to take his time, make a meditative exercise of it. “You’ll be handling Mr Snape’s account?”

“Merely a loan on my part, until he receives his first payslip,” Lucius says, with no small amount of pride in his voice, and Severus awkwardly holds his hands in front of his belly, glancing toward the window. He doesn’t know what to do, when Lucius makes a fuss over him to shopkeeps or the like – no one ever seems to raise an eyebrow, or say anything snide, but he can’t help but feel uncertain about it. People seem to think it’s the most natural thing in the world, for Lucius to have “taken an interest” in him, but he can’t help but wonder sometimes if they make something salacious of it, or something… _odd_.

“How kind,” Malkin says, taking down the details.

It’s a warm day, the air slightly heavy with humidity, and Severus can feel the cobbles of the stone beneath his boots. The dragonhide boots, he’d bought himself, and they’re very good, but he wouldn’t mind having a spare pair…

“We’ll go into Gringotts and set up an account for you,” Lucius says mildly. “Fifteen is the age whereupon one might pursue his own banking, and then Mr Mulpepper can pay your wages directly into your account.”

“Yes,” Severus says, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the very idea of it, of having his own vault at the bank, where one might charge things to one’s account… His mother hasn’t got an account, to Severus’ awareness. She usually just has her money to hand. It’d be inconvenient, for her to have an account at Gringotts – Dad always used to get upset if she went off anywhere on the Knight Bus, before he walked out.

“There you are,” Narcissa says as she comes forward, and Severus feels himself freeze as she reaches forward, tapping her neatly manicured fingers against the side of his cheek in a gesture of easy affection. For a second, Severus is struck by the picture they must make, Severus a blot of ink between Lucius and Narcissa both, each of them tall and blond and handsome, Narcissa’s hand on his cheek, Lucius at Severus’s shoulder.

They are too young, both of them, to be his parents. Lucius is scarcely six years his senior – Narcissa is barely even four.

( _But you like it, don’t you?_

_When they fuss over you at home, in private, that’s one thing, but when they do it in the street, where people can see, that makes it so legitimate. There’s no secrecy in it, no hiding it from passers by – it’s sanctified, in a way, by the onlooking gaze of other people._

_Bet you like that. Somebody acting like they love you.)_

“Both of you are ridiculous,” Severus says, wriggling away from Narcissa’s hand, and both of them laugh as Narcissa leans in toward Lucius’ shoulder, linking their arms together.

As they walk toward the bank, Narcissa holding her shopping bag loosely at her side, Severus walks beside them, a little distance between him and Narcissa. They both look at him as they move, both smiling, and Severus feels his skin prickle.

“What?” he demands. “Am I walking wrong?”

“No,” Narcissa says.

“A little twitchy, perhaps,” Lucius says. “And your gait could be smoother.”

“Shut up, Lucius,” Narcissa chides him, pushing on his chest. “It’s just nice to see you so relaxed, Severus. You always look so dour.”

Severus sets his jaw, feeling somewhat put upon by the comment, but it is proffered very softly, and with no small amount of warmth from either of them, so he feels he cannot politely avoid it, nor retort. At least, not in Narcissa’s company – he says what he likes to Lucius, manners be damned.

“We’ll eat somewhere together,” Lucius suggests mildly. “Go to a restaurant.”

“Ah, do not be fooled,” Narcissa says. “He just wants an excuse to quiz you on your table manners, see that your knowledge of salad forks and dining etiquette meets his exacting standards.”

“I wasn’t fooled,” Severus says, and Narcissa laughs. Lucius smiles at him over her head, and Severus looks away, over the street.

“We will crystalise your transformation yet, Severus,” Lucius says. “The more practice you have, the easier the habits will set.”

“Yes, Lucius,” Severus says dutifully, as he has a thousand times before, and he ignores Lucius’ quiet chuckle behind him.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Harry looks at himself in the mirror of Madam Pomfrey’s office, taking in his face. He doesn’t look like himself. Of course, he still sees his scar and the colour of his eyes, and the shape of his brow, but everything else is different. Especially with the slightly different shape of the glasses, too—

The jaw is harder, squarer, than his, and there’s a slight cleft in his chin. The cheek bones are a little less round, and she’s managed to make his face a slightly different shape too – instead of a vague heart shape, it’s squarer. His nose is a little bigger.

It’s even weirder than Polyjuice, and he shifts his jaw experimentally, feeling the difference…

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” Harry murmurs, staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror. “Do you really think I need to do the hair as well?”

“A Potter trait,” McGonagall reminds him.

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, reaching up and drawing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no, uh. You’re right.”

New name, new face, new mission.

Harry puts his hand over his mouth, and he feels a sense of nausea heavy in his stomach, but he concentrates on not gagging. It’s not just nerves, he doesn’t think. _He_ feels a little sick. Jet lag, he supposes. Or something like it.

Just jet lag, for the average time traveller.


	5. Chapter Four: Metamorphosis

**TUESDAY 24 TH AUGUST, 1976**

“Your last payslip of the summer,” Mr Mulpepper says, and Severus feels himself smile as he looks down at the neatly printed text on the parchment card. Mr Mulpepper is a tall man, ridiculously lanky, and his face is scattered with liverspots and freckles, each indistinguishable from one another, his black hair showing its grey roots where he needs another dye job. He’s a very strict man, but not an unkind one.  

It is one o’clock in the afternoon, and outside it is warm, but humid. Now and then, drizzles of water wet the ground and dash against the window, but it’s never heavy.

“Are you quite certain, Mr Mulpepper, that you don’t wish me to work this week as well?” Severus asks, glancing up and meeting the gaze of the other man. “This will likely be the busiest rush of the summer you’ve had to deal with, as yet.”

Mr Mulpepper smiles, his hazy-green eyes shifting as he looks Severus up and down, taking him in. He’d done that when they’d first met, analysed him from head to foot and apparently not found him wanting. “Severus, you have worked six full days a week from your first week onward, and thrice, you have assisted me on Sundays, despite that not being a requirement of your employment contract.”

“I dislike to be idle, Mr Mulpepper,” Severus murmurs. And it is true – this summer, he has done his best to work as much as he could. Between his Occlumency lessons, his lessons in etiquette, his work at the apothecary, and his own reading in the Malfoy library… It’s been wonderful. He feels more—

 _Complete_. It is as if he’s been in-progress for years upon years, and he’s finally reaching something close to _finished_. All in one summer.

“Yes, yes, I’ve noticed that, but they are called your summer _holidays_ for a reason,” Mr Mulpepper says lowly. “Write to me, young man, when you’ve finished your studies for this year, and let me know what weeks you’ll be free.”

Severus feels as if his breath is caught in his throat.

At the beginning of the summer, he might have spoken without thinking. He might have uttered some exclamation, or asked, “ _Really_?” or perhaps, “ _You mean it?”_ The desperate joy might have shown plainly on his face, or in the shift of his posture.

As it stands, Severus remains upright, his posture square, his expression carefully schooled into neutrality. He smiles – a small, close-lipped smile, nothing too audacious – and he gives a delicate inclination of his head.

“Of course, Mr Mulpepper,” he says quietly. That has been the principle of Lucius’ lessons, and perhaps the one he has most taken to heart. “I would be very glad to return.”

( _“You speak very quietly,” Lucius murmurs, and Severus glances at him, uncertain._

_“Ought I speak louder?” he asks._

_“You already raise your speaking voice louder than is your natural tendency, don’t you?” Lucius replies, and Severus hesitates. It is strange, sometimes, how easily he forgets how much Lucius knows about him, how observant he can be when he wants to be, and how long he’s **known** Severus. _

_“Yes,” Severus says. “But I can speak louder, if I merely project—”_

_“No,” Lucius says, shaking his head. “No, no. Speak as quietly as you dare, Severus: speak in nothing more than a whisper. For public speaking engagements, certainly, think about the projection lessons, but— Consider. If you shout, if you must raise your voice, you show the room how much you want for them to hear you. Your control is enfeebled by your desperation to exercise it.”_

_“Whereas if I speak quietly,” Severus finishes the train of thought, feeling as if he has just witnessed a moon wax to completion, “others must focus, must strain even, to hear me. They make **themselves** quiet.”_

_Severus feels a warmth of pride in his chest as Lucius smiles at him._  “ _Exactly_ ,” _he murmurs, and the lesson goes on.)_

“Check with Terrence at the desk before you go,” Mr Mulpepper says. “There’s just one thing you need to take with you, and I shall see you next summer.”

“Thank you again,” Severus murmurs, shaking the old man’s hand, and he steps back toward the door, ascending the steps from the brewing laboratory and up into the apothecary’s storefront, glancing to Terrence at the desk. A few children are examining the various ingredients on the shelves, chattering amongst themselves and to their parents, and Severus moves across the room.

Shoulders back, chin high, gait smooth.

His boots don’t make a sound where they touch against the floor – it had taken him almost the entire summer to repress the sound of his footsteps. It isn’t perfect (you can still hear it when he runs, and he hasn’t yet managed to put the same enchantment into his robes), but it’s… He used to so despise the _sound_ of it.

“Here,” Terrence Mulpepper murmurs, and he reaches under the desk, drawing out a black leather case, flicking open the fastenings. Terrence is a dark-haired boy, stocky and good with people, in his late twenties. Severus hasn’t… _minded_ him. Terrence is a rather dim man, can scarcely follow a more complex conversation, and seems to do well at potions as a result of his ability to follow instructions, but he’s— _Strapping_. It had been rather nice, to see him work, when his shirt rode up, or when he was exerted from heavy lifting. “Grandad thought it might be a nice treat for you, Severus.”

“Treat?” Severus repeats, and he stares at the contents of the case when Terrence opens it up, surprised. He sees the ingredients he will require for the rest of the year, that he would have replenished his stock with, but there are other ingredients, too – nothing especially rare or expensive, but certainly useful things, even if not called for by the Hogwarts syllabus.

“Work hard,” Terrence murmurs, grinning and showing his handsome set of teeth. “Get rewarded.”

“Quite,” Severus murmurs, and he closes the case again, drawing it toward himself. “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Terrence. I shall see you come next August, or perhaps during the Christmas holiday.”

“You’ll write us though, won’t you?” Terrence says, and Severus feels himself momentarily struck dumb, glancing at him uncertainly. Terrence is smiling, his chin on his hand. “What? Nobody makes nasty jokes like you do, Sev. Can’t exactly get my helping of horrible wit from the _Prophet_ , can I?”

“Not unless I apply for their opinions column,” Severus murmurs weakly. He isn’t sure what the correct response is to this – no one has ever _asked_ him to write to them before, except for Lucius, and that had always been a matter of imperative rather than a friendly invitation.

Terrence laughs. “See? You make me laugh. Write us.”

“Of course,” Severus says, holding the ingredients case against his chest as he inclines his head, and he has to concentrate to keep from running into the street, keeping his gait slow and measured as he exits the apothecary.

Holding the case at his side – it isn’t so different to a Muggle briefcase, really, although it’s a little smaller – he walks down the street, feeling the sun on his face. What does he need for the year? He has the majority of his books already, although there are two he had been waiting for Flourish & Blotts to have delivered; he wants to replace his scales…

That’s it.

No worrying over the price, no panicking…

He has money. He has a few hundred Galleons altogether, from his wages and his savings… He needs to get something for Lucius and Narcissa, a thank you gift – Lucius had suggested flowers, so perhaps he could get something delivered on the evening of the 31st? Not a mere bouquet, though – perhaps a sapling, something they might water, and perhaps some chocolates as well…

Severus realizes he has come to a stop in the street, in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. In the window, they are displaying the Nimbus 14, the newest racing broom to hit the market, for some two-hundred Galleons, but in the back of the shop, he can see the **CLEANSWEEPS** **HALF-PRICE** sign.

A new Cleansweep would be a good seventy Galleons, but—

Last year’s model at half-price would only be, what, twenty Galleons, thirty?

Severus has never had his own broomstick before. He had been a chaser for the Slytherin team in the second half of his third year, and Lucius had loaned him his broomstick for the purpose. He’d enjoyed the exercise, and he’d been good on the broom, but then Potter and Black had both tried out in fourth year, Potter as a chaser, Black as a beater, and Severus had given up the sport entirely after Black had thrown him off the broom with a well-aimed bludger and sent him careening into the Ravenclaw stands. He’d broken his nose and two of his fingers, but it hadn’t been about the _injury_ so much as the mortification of it.

He hadn’t been able to justify wanting a broom once he’d left the team, and although Lucius had tried to insist he keep hold of his broom, it had seemed ridiculous…

But this isn’t charity, or pity. This would be buying a broomstick with his _own_ money, and he’d be able to go out flying whenever he liked, instead of waiting for a time when it was convenient to borrow something from the broom cupboard on an afternoon…

He loves flying. He misses it, when he can’t – he’d like to work out how to fly on his own, but it just doesn’t work out that way whenever he tries to come up with the right sort of spell, just _won’t_ …

And Potter and Black know _Levicorpus_ , anyway, had nicked some of his notes off him and used it against him—

Not this year. He won’t take anything from Potter and Black this year.

Stepping over the threshold and into the shop, he moves toward the Cleansweep section, examining the models they have on display.

“First broom?” he hears from the woman behind the desk.

“Oh, no, I’ve been very lucky,” says the man she’s speaking to. He’s about Terrence Mulpepper’s age, with dark brown hair and square glasses. A scar spreads over his forehead like cracks in paintwork. “I played Quidditch when I was a boy, so I had a Nimbus, and then I had a F— An American broom, I don’t think they have them here in the UK.”

“Don’t they prefer that Quodpot game in America?” the woman asks.

The man laughs, tipping his head back slightly. “They do,” he says, ruefully. “But that wasn’t about to stop me.” He turns back, and he looks at Severus.

Severus stands, frozen, last year’s Cleansweep model in his hand.

He’s got beautiful eyes, the man with the scar on his head. They’re like Lily’s eyes, brightly green, _beautiful_ —

_(“I like your eyes,” Severus murmurs. They’re sitting on the fence outside the currently empty paddock – they’ll be working with unicorns later in the week, and Severus is excited. He knows they don’t like boys, really, but he’s excited to just be able to see them – he’s liked horses a great deal, when meeting them at Malfoy Manor that Christmas, and unicorns are just… They’re something else. They’re **ethereal**. _

_“Do you?” Lily asks, and she smiles, cheer showing in her face._

_“Yeah, they’re better than mine, in’t they? Just **black**.”_

_“I like your eyes,” Lily murmurs, nudging in him the shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with black.”_

_“Gaspode Rodham said they were freaky,” Severus murmurs._

_The memory makes him smile just slightly anyway, because Gaspode Rodham had been soaked through when he’d said it, naked and wandering across the changing rooms without a care in the world – and he hadn’t meant it, anyway, because he’d shoved Severus in the head and laughed, and he’d given Severus Ancient Rues revision tips over dinner that night. Rodham is a seventh year, the captain of the Quidditch team, keeps trying to get Severus to join back up again… But Severus hadn’t been thinking about that, then. He’d been thinking about the fact that Rodham, a relatively average-sized boy well-defined by his Quidditch exercise had been naked and shirtless in front of him, his cock hanging soft between his legs, and it’d been **big**. Bigger than any cock he’d seen before, anyway, not that he’s seen many. _

_“No,” Lily murmurs. She’s leaning closer to him now, close enough that he can smell the sickly-sweet perfume her mum had bought her last Christmas. Severus can’t stand the stuff, or the way it cloys and sticks in his nose and his throat – he doesn’t like perfumes, or colognes, really._

_Her eyes, up close like this, are lovely. They’re a vibrant green he doesn’t know how to describe – they’re a bit like green bottleglass, when it’s scrubbed clean and held up so the light will flow through it… And they suit her, he thinks. They settle well in the paleness of her face and the thickness of her eyelashes, and her bright red hair. Lily is just… Lily._

_“What, have I got an eyelash?” Severus asks. She’s leaning right close, now, way closer than anybody does – even Lucius or Mum only come in this close when he’s got something on his face._

_“No,” Lily murmurs, a little shyly, and her thumb touches against his chin. He isn’t clear on what’s happening until she closes the gap between them, her lips against his own, and Severus sits frozen, his eyes wide and staring at Lily’s closed eyes, feeling the sticky gloss on her lips touch against his own, feeling her **kiss** him— She pulls back, and there must be something on his face he stares at her, because she goes from shy to uncertain, indignant, even. “What?” she demands. “What, wasn’t it— What’s wrong?”_

_“I don’t…” Severus coughs, wiping the nasty lip gloss off his mouth with his sleeve. “Sorry, um, I didn’t—” What does he say? He isn’t sure what to say, doesn’t have something that’s supposed to be said in this situation, where someone **kisses** you – Lily! Where Lily kisses him! “Why’d you do that for?” He sounds too angry. He shouldn’t sound that angry. _

_Lily leans back slightly, her lip curling. “You don’t need to sound so **disgusted**! It’s a kiss, Sev, people kiss each other!”_

_“They don’t kiss **me** ,” Severus mutters, feeling the flush begin to burn on his cheeks as he hauls himself up from the fence, stumbling away from the paddock and standing on the grass. “Sorry, Lily, I don’t… I don’t want that.”_

_“What do you mean, you don’t want it?” Lily asks, staring at him. “What, because your Death Eater friends wouldn’t want you kissing a **Mudblood**?”_

_Severus stares at her, stunned. “Gaspode Rodham is a Muggleborn,” he almost says. “And I’d kiss him.”_

_As it stands, he’s just frozen, silent._

_“No,” he manages to choke out, finally. “No, I—”_

_“I don’t want to hear it!” Lily snaps, and he stares powerlessly after her as she walks up the hill, toward the castle.)_

“Severus Snape, isn’t it?” says the man with the lightning scar.

“Yes,” Severus says, a little tightly. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“Nah,” he says. “I think you’re taller.”

Severus blinks, staring at him, and the man smiles.

“Harry Evans,” he supplies mildly. “I’ll be assisting your Defence professor this year.”

“You related to Lily and Petunia Evans?” Severus asks, automatically shaking the other’s hand when he offers it. He is taller than Evans, but only by a few inches. He hope he gets taller.

“I’ve got an aunt named Petunia,” Evans says. “But I wouldn’t wish the displeasure of knowing her on you.”

Severus’ lip twitches, and he exhales. Evans’ hands are hard and strong, but they aren’t rough or calloused, the skin of his palm soft against Severus’, which is scarred and marked with little burns and mistakes in the Potions laboratory. A Quidditch-player Evans might be, but he wears gloves.

“Right,” Severus says. “How is it you know my name?”

“Oh, I’ve seen you working in Mulpepper’s apothecary – one of the other staff pointed you out, I don’t remember who.” _Whom_ , Severus wants to correct, reflexively. “Getting yourself a new broom?”

“Yes,” Severus murmurs. “I should hope the weather remains appropriate to the purpose of flying.”

Evans smiles, and he claps his hand against Severus’ shoulder before waving back to the woman behind the desk. He holds in his hand one of the Cleansweep models – the same one Severus had picked up.

“So you’re not a real professor, then?” Severus asks, and Evans turns back to look at him. There’s an odd expression on his face, but then a slow smile creeps across his face, his green eyes alight with it. There’s something about his face that isn’t quite right, that’s just slightly off, but it’s… It’s handsome, he supposes.

“Did your accent just slip?” Evans asks.

“No,” Severus says immediately, defensively. “No.”

“No,” Evans says mildly, chuckling as he pushes open the door. “I’m not a real professor.”

Severus stares after him for just a second, and then he turns back toward the desk.

“Nice lad,” the woman murmurs, her expression thoughtful. “Grew up in America, he was saying.”

“Oh, I see,” Severus says, feeling odd and embarrassed, for a reason he can’t explain, couldn’t explain if he tried. He abhors small talk, anyway – he is never certain what is appropriate to say, and what isn’t. “Good job he hasn’t the accent.”

She laughs, wrapping up the broomstick with paper and string.

He got it right, that time. It always seems a fifty-fifty chance.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“Students are out in force already,” Harry says casually as he enters the staff room. This is met with a primarily icy response that he’s beginning to grow used to. Flitwick glances at him, his lips pressed tightly together as he looks up from his crossword; McGonagall ignores him, focusing on her book; Sinistra and Kettleburn, who are playing a game of chess, do not respond.

Slughorn is asleep in a plush armchair, apparently enjoying the sun as it comes in through the window.

The bulk of the staff had arrived back a week ago yesterday, and nearly everybody just… Looks at him funny. He’s too young to be a member of the staff, but it’s more than that. They think it’s _suspicious_. They find _him_ suspicious. They don’t think he’s a Death Eater, no, but Harry is pretty sure they think he’s been inserted for one reason or other – maybe they think he’s misusing Hogwarts by staying here, that he’s taking advantage of Dumbledore, somehow…

Gertrude Sylvester had been delighted to meet him, however.

At one-hundred-and-forty-two, she is the oldest Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher that has ever taken up the position, and she had handed her to-do list over to him. It’s mostly simple stuff. Set out the classroom the way she wants it, order some supplies in Diagon Alley, make hand-outs from her lesson plans…

He’d never considered being a teacher, really.

He’d enjoyed it, though, with Dumbledore’s Army, enjoyed teaching people things and had genuinely found it _fun_ , but… Actually, the lesson plans don’t look so hard. The handouts aren’t so difficult to make. Maybe when the actual lessons roll around, he’ll hate it, but for the time being… It’s _nice_. The work isn’t so hard.

“I saw a new thing in the window of Gambol and Japes,” he continues, unfazed by how little any of them pay attention to him. “It’s called a _Fanged Frisbee_. Bet you Mr Filch will have them banned within the year.”

“Why?” Flitwick asks, not looking up from his crossword. “Are they fun?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Harry says. “It’s a pretty literal name. They’re frisbees that try their best to rip your throat out.”

“He’ll probably buy some of his own to aim at the students, then,” Flitwick replies. Harry laughs.

Filius Flitwick, it turns out, dislikes Argus Filch. He hates Horace Slughorn. He fights viciously with Silvanus Kettleburn. According to Rolanda Hooch, who is probably the friendliest member of staff to Harry, Hagrid excluded (after all, Harry had “met” Hagrid in Hogsmeade and bought him a drink with a little of his stipend, meaning they were fast friends), Flitwick has a temper like you wouldn’t _believe_.

It’s incredible, to find out something new about someone he’s seen for _years_ …

But not really known.

“I saw one Severus Snape,” Harry says, experimentally. “He’s a seventh year, right?”

“Sixth year,” Flitwick corrects him.

“He’s been working in Mulpepper’s Apothecary this summer, though, right? I thought the apothecaries never hired you unless you were of age.”

“There’s no law against it,” McGonagall murmurs. Her book rests in her lap, and she looks directly at Harry, her expression unreadable. “I’m sure Mr _Malfoy_ vouched for him.”

“Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry asks. He’s getting the hang of it, navigating his conversations like this. His cover story is that he’s been living in the US since he was a kid, but that he’s come back to the UK because his parents have died… The first few weeks he’d just read everything he could on wizarding America, but he’s got enough down now, he thinks. He just needs to make sure his knowledge isn’t too revealing – he isn’t supposed to know most of the younger people, but he can know people’s parents, assuming their names come to mind.

“No, Lucius,” McGonagall says, shaking her head. “Abraxas’ son. When young Snape started at Hogwarts, Malfoy took an interest him.”

“Lucius Malfoy,” Flitwick says very conspiratorially, drawing his newspaper to his chest as he leans toward Harry, and Harry leans in to listen, “is the first person Snape asks to be contacted, in the event of an injury. Not his mother or father.”

“That’s weird,” Harry says, assuming that this is the correct thing to say.

“ _Isn’t_ it?” Flitwick says.

“Don’t make it into something lascivious, Filius,” McGonagall says scoldingly, hitting him on the knee with her book, and making him teeter slightly on the stack of books he’s balanced on. “No, Malfoy is…” Harry remembers what McGonagall had said to him before, about Lucius Malfoy, about his taking Severus Snape under his wing. There’s something different about her tone now. She isn’t grieving, dejected, quiet; she’s uncertain and angry, _indignant_ , almost. “He treats Snape almost like a son. He always did take some propriety over the boy, even when Snape was in his first year and Malfoy in his seventh, but now, you know, Snape would do whatever Malfoy told him. It’s been good for him, in some ways – he used to have a terrible temper, when he was a boy, and Malfoy got him to work on that, but…”

Harry remembers a memory of Severus Snape’s, the shadows of two people, a woman and a man, arguing with one another, _screaming_.

“What’s wrong with his real parents?” he asks.

Flitwick shrugs his shoulders.

McGonagall looks away.

“He seemed okay to me,” Harry murmurs. “Polite. Kinda— I don’t know, a weird way of talking. It was like his accent slipped, once or twice.”

Flitwick and McGonagall both turn to glance at him, and he sees the confusion in both their faces.

“Boy’s got a strange accent,” Flitwick says slowly, his brow furrowing. “He’s a mix of Northern English, and his mother, Eileen, she’s Irish. He has some of her lilt in his accent.”

“Really?” Harry asks. “Northern…” He thinks of the voice of the Severus Snape he’d always known: quiet, carefully cultivated. The kind of accent someone like Uncle Vernon would call “neutral”. It had taken everything he could not to scream or jump around when he’d been faced with the young Severus Snape in front of him, to keep cool and easy, to talk with him. “I guess that sounds right. He only let it loose for a second or two, though. Mostly sounded posh enough to me.”

“You met him in Mulpepper’s?” McGonagall asks.

“Nope,” Harry replies. “In Quality Quidditch Supplies. We bought the same broomstick. There’s no staff meeting today, right?”

“No,” McGonagall says. That’s _all_ she says.

“Can’t wait to have essays to mark,” Harry says, doing his best to sound as chipper as possible. Everyone except Slughorn, who is still fast asleep, turns to stare at him. “See, I know you’re _listening_. Can’t give me the cold shoulder forever, ladies and gents.”

Sinistra scoffs. Kettleburn furrows his brow. McGonagall rolls her eyes.

“Why don’t I walk with you, Mr Evans?” Flitwick says mildly, hopping down from the books, and Harry feels himself smile slightly. He’d introduced himself with his first name, to start with, but they all call him _Mr Evans_ , anyway – that’s what the students will call him. And he calls them _Professor_.

Flitwick looks directly at him, focused, as they move out into the corridor. Harry’s quarters are up two staircases, which isn’t so far in the scheme of the castle. “What gives you the idea we’re giving you the cold shoulder?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says mildly, conversationally. “Because I’m eighteen, and stupid, and I came out of nowhere to waltz into a job you don’t think I know anything about, and a job that doesn’t usually exist?”

Flitwick’s lip twitches. He has a very intent stare, Harry realizes for the first time. The focus is almost inhuman, and Harry thinks of Griphook. There’s some goblin blood in Flitwick, isn’t there? Or something like it…

“Funny phrasing there, Mr Evans,” Flitwick murmurs. “A job _we think_ you don’t know anything about. Are you trying to tell me you think you could go toe-to-toe with an experienced duellist?”

“What, you trying to trick me into agreeing to a duel?” Harry asks, grinning. “Professor Flitwick, you’re an international _champion_. I’ve only been in like, three formal duels in my life.”

“And informally?” Flitwick asks. “Young man, you might think you know something about defence, but you’ve been very foolish. There is a reason so many wizards and witches are fleeing _to_ America, to other communities: for you to come here was ridiculous of you. We are _at war_ , Mr Evans. Are you ready to kill somebody to protect the students?”

“Oh, I get it,” Harry says quietly. “You think I’ve only played at war before, right? You think I’m just some stupid kid who wants power and glory? You think no one’s ever tried to kill me before? _You_ think,” Harry adds, seeing the stiffness in Flitwick’s expression, the narrow of his eyes, “that I look this tired and dead-eyed, with a curse scar in the middle of my head, because I want to play at toy soldiers.”

Flitwick presses his lips together, and then they curve up at the edges, the smile plain on his face. Subtle, but there. “I didn’t know it was a curse scar,” Flitwick says softly. “What curse, if I might ask?”

“I don’t know what it’s called,” Harry lies pleasantly. “But I know it kills most people.”

“And why would someone, Harry,” Flitwick asks slowly, staring up at him to stare him down, “want to perform such a nasty curse on a young man like yourself?”

“I don’t know, Filius,” Harry replies, feeling himself thrill at the strange surrealism of calling his Charms Professor by his first name, “why would a young man like myself want to flee the charm of the American Midwest to come to an active warzone? _Especially_ ,” he adds, “since you know I’m a Muggleborn?”

“He’d have to be very brave,” Flitwick says, “or very stupid.”

“Ravenclaws,” Harry murmurs. “It always has to be one or the other with you, doesn’t it?”

Something shifts in Flitwick’s face, just for a second, but it’s fleeting.

“I think I underestimated you, Harry,” he says. “Strange young man, aren’t you?”

“Lots of people underestimate me,” Harry says goodnaturedly. “I’m sure you’ve experienced the same. I can’t promise you that I’d kill for one of the students, you know, if it came to it… But I can promise you I’d die for them.”

“You don’t know any of them yet,” Flitwick murmurs. “How do you know they’re worth dying for?”

“No one ever asked me that before,” Harry replies. He’s fairly certain that it’s true, too – nobody had ever said to him, ever implied to him, even, that the people around him weren’t worth saving. Voldemort had never even tried that angle. “But they’re kids. You don’t know what they’re gonna be yet. They deserve the benefit of the doubt. They deserve somebody looing out for them, all of them. Even the ones you’ve written off as already being on the other side.”

“You’re hiding things, Harry,” Flitwick says. “I don’t know why Albus has picked you up, but you’re hiding things.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “I’m hiding things.”

Horcruxes. Voldemort. Time travel.

His parents.

“But Albus trusts me,” Harry says. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

“With you, it counts for everything.”

Harry laughs. They stop outside the door to his quarters, and he looks at Flitwick, glances down at him. He’d always been like this, hadn’t he? He’d always been argumentative, and gossipy, and _arrogant_ , and he’d just—

Never noticed.

All of the teachers, all with their own little lives and arguments and personalities, and he’d just never noticed. Is that wrong of him? He’d never even thought of them as being people, really, even when it had come down to the war, except for Slughorn, and that had never been positive. Hagrid had been in his own category, but the rest of the staff, he’d never thought about whether they had families, why they chose to teach at Hogwarts, whether they had friends.

Is that how the students will look at him, this year? Not as a person, but as a cog in part of the machine responsible for educating them? With his own gaps and teeth, perhaps, but still just a cog, still turning in the same direction?

“I really am looking forward to marking essays, you know,” Harry says.

“That won’t last,” Flitwick says in swift response, and he shifts his newspaper under his arm, then puts out his hand. “I underestimated you,” he says again. “I just hope all of this talk of yours isn’t just bluster and hot air.”

“God, me too,” Harry replies, leaning to shake Flitwick’s hand. “Won’t it be awkward if I act the tough guy then get knocked out by a fanged frisbee or something?”

Flitwick stares at him for another long moment. Harry feels as if Flitwick is _studying_ him, trying to analyse him for some particular fact or element, maybe. Whatever it is, perhaps he finds it, or perhaps he doesn’t, but he takes a step back.

“See you later, Harry,” he says slowly.

“See you later, Filius,” Harry echoes, and he steps inside his quarters.

He lies down, but he never manages to get to sleep.

Instead, he thinks of young Severus Snape, the boy he’d seen twitching and pale, like a plant grown in the dark… And compares him to the boy he’d met in Diagon Alley today, standing straight and walking smoothly, a ghost of the one he’d know in the future.


	6. Chapter Five: Introductions

 Harry turns away from the counter, and when his gaze lands on the young Severus Snape, who doesn’t have the same lines on his face or the same shadows under his eyes, and yet is unmistakably, indisputably, _unquestionably_ Snape. Harry remembers all too well when he’d seen him in the memory in the pensieve, the twitchy, jumpy boy who spat out every curseword under the sun when he’d been stuck between Harry’s father and his friends, a baying crowd behind him…

This Snape isn’t jumpy.

That was at the end of his fifth year, that that happened – that couldn’t have been more than _months_ ago, but this Snape doesn’t jump or twitch or flinch.

He stands very straight-backed, his hands loosely held in front of his chest, and Harry takes in the myriad of buttons that run down his chest and down his arms, already. He’s only fifteen or sixteen, but he’s already wearing _those robes_ , those robes Harry always associated with him, like a priest’s cassock, but more grim.

The Snitch whizzes past behind his head, but he ignores it, feeling himself smile as he takes a slow step forward.

“Severus Snape, isn’t it?” he can’t help but ask: he can’t help the smile on his face either, the _smile_ that breaks across his lips: Severus Snape, alive! Severus Snape, _alive_ , alive and young, alive and breathing, alive and right in front of him. Not yet a Death Eater, not yet with the world falling down around his head, not yet a killer or a soldier or a teacher or a spy, just… _a boy_.

A kid.

Stiff and ugly and odd, but not dead, not yet.

_If I could go back and save one more person…_

“Yes,” Snape says, his voice hard and a little cold, but then he speaks again, like he’s trying to soften his own tone, like his actual _voice_ isn’t finished yet, “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

“Nah,” Harry says immediately: they’re right in front of one another, only a few inches between them, and Harry has to look slightly _up_ to meet Snape’s black, black gaze. Maybe he imagines it, but it isn’t as hard as it once was, it isn’t as unyielding, as full of anger. A fanged frisbee sails past in his peripheral vision, but Harry barely notices it. “I think you’re taller.”

It isn’t a funny joke, not really – it certainly isn’t Harry’s best attempt at wit. Snape certainly doesn’t find it funny: if anything, he seems confused.

“Harry Potter,” he says. “I’ll be your saviour this year.”

“You’re Lily’s son, aren’t you?” Snape asks, his brow furrowed in careful thought.

“That’s right, yeah,” Harry says. “James Potter’s my dad.”

Snape’s huge nose wrinkles, his face twisting up, and Harry feels a pang of sympathy for him.

“It must be hard,” he says. “I mean— seeing him with her, when you’re in love with her.”

“Merely horror at the concept of him passing on his aberrant genes,” Snape replies, his voice smooth, slow, easy. His voice is different, all of a sudden, harsher, lower, like there’s something caught in his throat.

“Did your accent just slip?” he asks, on autopilot: it’s just a script laid out for him, the words he said before, and Snape smiles.

It isn’t a real smile, Harry doesn’t think, remembering what Flitwick had said before – it isn’t a real, genuine smile, but a cold smile, a nasty smile, his eyes dark.

“No, it didn’t slip, Potter,” he whispers softly.

“Wait,” Harry says. “Wait, no, you shouldn’t know my name—”

Blood is beginning to bubble over the white collar of Severus’ under robe, spreading in a sickly, maroon cloud into the black fabric of his outer robe, and Harry can see the open tear of his throat, see the blood gushing, see the _bone_ at the back of his spine, and he takes a stumbling step back, shaking his head.

“Fanged frisbees, Potter,” Snape says, his voice hoarse and broken in the middle: his bloody hand reaches for Harry’s shoulder, gripping it tightly under his pale fingers, his digging fingernails, “they’re a terrible nuisance.”

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Harry jolts in his seat, heaving in a breath, and he blinks a few times from behind the square rims of his glasses – he’d grabbed hold of a pair of his own when he’d been in Diagon Alley, actually suited to his prescription, and his dad’s have been returned to the spares in the Hospital Wing. The insomnia is grating on him, night after night, and he keeps falling asleep in the _day_.

The nightmares are… They’re weird. They’re not just about Snape – Voldemort is in some of them, or other Death Eaters, or just Dementors and creatures, but they all have the same, slightly abstract theme, all of them weird and kind of disconnected from reality. He should probably _know_ that they’re dreams, because of how weird they are, but he never seems to until he’s awake.

“Mr Evans?” Dumbledore prompts again, and Harry looks at him across the table at the staff meeting, inhaling slowly. “Weren’t you just saying this yesterday?”

“Yes,” he says, parsing together his reality from the uncomfortably vivid network of his dreamscape. “Yes, they’re a terrible nuisance. I completely agree with Mr Filch: they should be banned completely.”

Stoutly, his lips pressed together and his chin jutting out, Filch gives a nod of approval at being agreed with.

“It’s just a _toy_ ,” Sinistra says, directing her irritation more at Filch than at Harry himself. She’s so much younger than she had been when Harry had had her as a teacher – except for Harry himself, she’s the youngest member of staff, and she’s only twenty, he thinks, or perhaps twenty-one. “I mean, shouldn’t we leave it and see if they actually _cause_ any trouble first?”

“If we ban them,” says Professor Earnest Hayden, an extremely tall, red-faced man with glasses that seem much too small for his huge, brown eyes, “I think it likely that the children will bring them in simply to go against authority. Best we take such things as they come.” Compost is smeared across his green leather apron, and a particularly clingy ivy plant is coiled around his arm, although he barely seems to notice it.

“I agree, Earnest,” Dumbledore says musingly. “Best we table the issue for now.”

Filch lets out a low grunt of distaste, and Harry crosses his arms over his chest, digging his fingernails into the side of his arm to keep himself from falling asleep again. Around the table, some of the staff are having the same issue as Harry himself, struggling to remain focused. Across from him, Flitwick isn’t even pretending to pay attention, and is idly filling in squares on the morning’s crossword; Professor Barnabas Griffin, a surprisingly young man whose blank silver-grey eyes, from what Harry can gather, are completely sightless, is nonetheless staring down at a book entitled **DIVINATION FOR DUNCES.** The meeting has gone on for almost two hours, and Harry hasn’t yet seen him turn a page. Maybe it’s just for the look of the thing, or maybe it’s a joke, he isn’t actually sure.

The only other teacher, Jane Pink, is a well-dressed woman in her late thirties, with very neatly styled hair in a light brown bob around her face. She wears a yellow blouse and skirt under an orange plaid blazer, as well as neat platform shoes. It’s… It’s very 70s, and on top of that, it’s very _Muggle_ 70s. Some of the other professors, mostly Hayden, Kettleburn, and McGonagall, keep shooting her odd looks.

“Is that everything on the agenda?” Dumbledore asks, and beside Harry, Gertrude Sylvester leans forward, frowning slightly.

“Has anything been done to strengthen the school’s security?” she asks in her dusty, quaking voice, with such seriousness that everyone all turns to look at her. Flitwick glances up from his crossword, and Griffin’s head tilts slightly as he shifts his head, like he’s moving his ear so that he can hear better. The only teacher that doesn’t move from her position is Hooch, who’s had her chin against her palm, her fingers spread over her cheek, but even her hawk-like eyes sharpen, and her gaze flits to Dumbledore.

“The wards are strengthened every year,” he says quietly, his voice suddenly more measured, more serious, than before. His gaze is very focused behind the crescent lenses of his spectacles, and he slowly steeples his fingers together, leaning forward. “Professors Flitwick and Babbling have each been assisting with the ward additions, as has Professor Delaney.”

Hermione had been taught by Babbling, the Ancient Runes professor, Harry knows, but he had never had Delaney, and nor had Harry. The old man, who sits at the other head of the table, parallel to Professor Dumbledore, is at least a hundred, maybe a hundred-and-twenty years old. He teaches Alchemy, and right now, is looking at Dumbledore through lidded eyes, as if he is only just managing to stay awake.

“There have been more murders this year,” Delaney says. His Irish brogue is so thick, on top of his voice being breathless with age, that Harry has to take a second or two to fathom exactly what it is he’s saying. “But none of them in populated areas. Not Diagon Alley, not the Ministry of Magic, and not Hogwarts. The Dark Lord’s influence isn’t going to spread into the school just yet.”

“He’s getting bolder,” Sylvester says gravely. “Just like—”

“Let us not make comparisons,” Dumbledore says, and although he speaks in scarcely more than a whisper, he cuts easily through Sylvester’s voice, his voice projected enough that it’s completely clear even in the crowded room. “But what more can we do, Gertrude?”

“Search their luggage,” Sylvester says. “Confiscate any books of dark magic, or any artefacts of note.”

“No,” McGonagall says, shaking her head. “No. We don’t search the students, we don’t invade their privacy, not unless we know they’ve done something wrong. They’re _children_ , not prisoners. I won’t have us rifling through their things in search of contraband.”

“Perhaps,” Flitwick suggests quietly, his jaw set, “if we were to merely use some spells that sense dark magic, and then only search the luggage that—”

“Fanged frisbees would trigger a dark magic sensor,” Harry says quietly.

“Oh, Mr _Evans_ ,” snaps Sinistra. “Would you show some perspective?”

“This is perspective,” Harry says, equally tersely. “Fanged frisbees would trigger a dark magic sensor, because they search for magic that’s violent, or intends to do harm. Fanged frisbees would trigger that – lots of joke products would, lots of things that are nothing more than toys. Some spells for sensing dark magic are triggered by bloody _Bludgers_ , for God’s sake. Either treat the students like inmates, and rifle through their things, or don’t, but don’t pretend like a dark magic sensor makes a difference. You’re all teachers, for Merlin’s sake, you know that _dark magic_ can mean anything.”

For a second, there’s silence.

Then, Flitwick sighs quietly, leaning back in his seat, upon which are stacked several books in a teetering tower to bring him to the same level as everyone else. “He’s right,” he mutters, waving one hand and shaking his head. “There are thousands of things that would trigger a sweep for dark magic, even just objects with nasty intentions.”

“Perhaps searches would be ideal, nonetheless,” McGonagall says, but Flitwick looks defeated.

“I don’t know that we should start looking at the students that way, as if they’ve already done something wrong,” Pomfrey says quietly. Her hands, which are neatly folded in her lap, are meeting at the knuckles, her gaze down at the table, as if she doesn’t want to meet anybody else’s gaze. “They’re here for us to take care of, not to accuse of wrongdoing, or to make them feel like they’re under undue scrutiny.”

“Aye,” Hooch says, with a stout nod of her head. “She’s right enough, too.”

Flitwick scoffs, despite that he’s just said, and Dumbledore presses his lips together for a moment before he says, “Are there any other suggestions for additional protections?”

“There are law enforcement officers stationed in Hogsmeade,” McGonagall says quietly. “But I think Professor Delaney is correct, I don’t think anyone will try to infiltrate the castle.”

“I have no doubt Lord Voldemort is doing precisely that,” Professor Pink says, idly. Harry hears the shifts around the table, glancing at her: she says his name without even flinching, without any concern apparent in her expression or her body language. She has the stubborn energy of one _refusing_ to be afraid, as Harry is used to seeing from Hermione.

“I thought people were scared to say his name,” Harry says, looking at Pink thoughtfully, and she raises her chin, making eye contact with him.

“Perhaps _people_ are,” she mutters. “Giving into a mad man like that, so narcissistic he should make up a nonsense name and then try to make people fearful of _saying_ it.”

“Why are people scared?” Harry asks, softly.

“It upsets the children,” Flitwick says in a low, measured tone, “when we say his name.”

“Nasty business,” Slughorn says hurriedly, shaking his head slightly and giving Harry a nasty look, but Harry ignores it.

“Why should it upset them?” he asks, leaning forward just slightly and looking up and down the table, at all the shut-down expressions, the set jaws.

“Lord Voldemort kills truth-seekers,” says Barnabas Griffin, leaning back in his seat slightly and cradling his book against his chest. It’s almost like somebody’s poured mercury into his eyes, their silvery colour catching the light in a very striking way, and Harry watches him for a long moment, his lips parted. “It started with Justice Cordenza, two or three years ago. She called him by name in a speech at the Ministry of Magic – she was an Auror, you see – and addressed the rumours his servants had spread, that his name itself was a death sentence. To say it, these rumours decreed, would be to bring him down upon you, to call his servants to your location, but Cordenza said this was a lie.” Griffin has an airy, breathless voice that reminds Harry of Luna Lovegood, but it doesn’t sound as dreamy as hers. It is cold, and serious, and almost brittle at its edges, and there’s a sense when he talks that he’s translating or repeating the words somebody else is saying in his ear, his eyes shifting in their sockets even though he can’t see. Harry only wishes he had _pupils,_ it’d be so much less creepier if he had pupils. “He hung her up by her tongue from the stairwell in her cottage, and left her children dead in their beds, her husband defenestrated and lying in a cloud of glass on the lawn.”

Harry’s mouth feels dry and sticky, and it’s like he can’t so much as breathe out too loudly, in case he interrupts. The quiet in the room is palpable, the tension so thick you couldn’t even cut it with a knife, and everyone is listening raptly as he talks.

“Then came August Harrier, you see, because she’d reported on Cordenza’s speech, and her photographer, Alfonso Horton, too, printed his name, bold as brass, in the _Daily Prophet_. They found them in Horton’s dark room – they were lovers, they’d always been lovers, I don’t know if that was public before the murders – and they had been bathed in the fluid from the photographs, had been enchanted. Their corpses shuddered and twitched when the Aurors came for them, their mouths in animated, rictus laughs, no sound coming out, repeating a motion again and again, leaning into one another and coming apart again, laughing, laughing—”

“Barney,” Madam Pomfrey says sharply, and Griffin stops abruptly, blinking, his blank eyes shining. Harry isn’t sure if it’s from the silver sheen, or maybe if he’s on the verge of crying. His back straightens out, and some of the nervous energy seems to seep out of the room.

“The editor, too,” Griffin continues, but without as much urgency, without as much of a hypnotic effect. “It isn’t an enchantment, no, but Lord Voldemort has his spies here and there. If they hear of someone using his name, they kill them. People make use of their epithets instead – You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord.”

Harry can’t get the image out of his head, of two corpses animated by the same stuff they use for photographs, can’t deal with the stuttered way they move in his own mind’s eye, faceless people that are just names, a man and a woman, already dead, lowered into their coffins still twitching…

“Aren’t you scared?” Harry asks, slightly hoarsely. He’s aware of Dumbledore looking at him, keeping an eye on him, but how can he not ask? How can he _not_?

“No,” Griffin says, in a sort of detached tone. “No. In any case, I expect Voldemort has converted a few of the older students to his cause, seventh years, a few of them… And undoubtedly, many of the children have as many parents who are servants of Voldemort’s cause as those whose relatives are members of law enforcement. But this is not a warground: this is Hogwarts. I would not make of the children extensions of their mothers and fathers, accusing them of their relatives’ crimes.”

“Come, then, let us put an end to this meeting,” Dumbledore says delicately. “We shall see how the term proceeds, and in the event that an issue arises, we might deal with it then. The children arrive tomorrow: hopefully, in the hustle and bustle of the school year, the war shall be left behind us.”

It seems like everyone takes in a breath around the table, taking a second before they each stand up, and go about their business.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

Severus sits on the bench outside of the aviary, a big barn cat, a flat-faced kneazle with clouds of black and white fur, is sitting on his lap, purring quietly although Severus neither strokes her nor offers her any praise. Her name is Fripouille, and she is a mouser on the grounds, primarily devouring any small pests that seek to come into the greenhouse, although according to Narcissa, she has also killed two foxes that have tried to creep into the aviary and the henhouse.

Lucius had been upset, of course. Everything seems to upset him.

_(“How many animals does he have need of?” Severus asks, powerlessly, as Fripouille winds herself around his ankles. It is his first week in Malfoy Manor, and he can see Lucius running into the hedge maze, the dogs excitedly pursuing him. He can hear their barks disperse as they run into the maze, losing sight of one another._

_He can hear Lucius laughing, and it makes him almost smile himself._

_“Oh, I don’t know,” Narcissa mutters. “He can have as many as they want, so long as they don’t come into the house.” And they do not come into the house, that much is true – the greyhounds are permitted to enter the kitchens in the first basement floor of the manor, and they mostly sleep in the lounge attached instead of in the shed with the other dogs, but the rest of the animals all roam the grounds at their will, and have their own huts or sheds in amongst the gardens._

_He glances at her, and he see that Narcissa has a small smile on her own face, her hand absently touching against her own chest, her hand hovering over the place where her heart beats beneath her robefront._

_“The children will love it,” she says softly, in a slightly dreamy tone that makes Severus uncomfortable, like he’s getting under foot, like he’s in the way. He leans down, scooping up the cat and finding her heavier than he had expected, and walks in the direction of the greenhouse to put her where she is supposed to be. Everyone should be where they are supposed to be.)_

It is the last day of the summer now, and the sun is beginning to come down over the horizon. There are one or two scant clouds in the sky, and he can hear the chickens fussing to one another as they settle down to roost, can hear the Choral Bushes in the greenhouse beginning to chuff and chatter to one another.

When the moon comes out, they’ll begin to sing.

He can hear it at night, if he sleeps with the window open: the Choral Bushes harmonize together and sing as the moon filters in through the ceiling panes of the greenhouse glass. Their song is eerie and low, but Severus actually likes it, and it almost makes him wish the Herbology greenhouses at the school were closer to the castle, but even then, he probably wouldn’t hear them down in the dungeons.

He thinks he’ll miss it when he’s back at Hogwarts. He’ll miss a lot of things.

“There you are,” Lucius says, coming out from the house, and he looks at the cat in Severus’ lap, his lip twitching. “You can take her with you, if you like. I have no doubt she wouldn’t mind a few month’s holiday, bothering the other cats and curling up on your pillow.”

Severus considers it for a second, looking down at the ridiculously muscular mass of purring animal on his knees.

“I wouldn’t let her sleep in my bed,” Severus says.

“Liar,” Lucius replies, and Severus gently sets his palm on Fripouille’s side, feeling the slight vibration of her purr under his hand. Some of the cats in Slytherin house will come into his dormitories, now and then, will leap up and sit with him where he lies on the bed, or come and butt their heads against his hand or his face while he’s studying. He likes cats – they like him. He doesn’t think he likes them enough to go out and buy one, or to have to remember to feed it, or have one irritating him by climbing into bed with him every night. Some nights, though, that would be alright. He likes how warm she is, and the purr makes him feel…

“She sheds terribly,” Severus complains.

“Yes, she’s a very hirsute animal,” Lucius says. “Narcissa makes a big show of disliking it, although she still gives her slices of chicken from her plate, and sometimes reposes in the greenhouse with Fripouille on her chest.”

“Narcissa seems to be in the habit of saying things whilst doing the opposite,” Severus says slowly, unsure if this is overstepping, but it doesn’t seem that that’s the case.

Lucius laughs, sinking down onto the bench beside him, looking around over the gardens. “Yes, she does, at that,” he agrees, seeming satisfied with this state of things. “Her letters often comprised of things she hated about me, item after item of problems with my personality or my poise or my appearance. I, in response, would often laud her every facet.”

They’d become engaged in Narcissa’s Sixth Year – two years of communicating almost only by letters. It’s one thing for Severus to write letters back and forth with him: that’s only a friendship, and an irritating one at that, at times, but an _engagement_?

“What about during the holidays?” Severus asks quietly. “When you met one another then, in person, what would you say to one another?”

Lucius opens his mouth, closes it, opens it once again. There’s a slight tinge of pink embarrassment on his cheeks as he says, “Primarily, actually, we would sit in tense silence, making polite small talk and being too uncertain to speak any further. Often, we had some chaperone or other with us, you see, and then even alone, we were in the habit of keeping ourselves blank-faced and quiet. It was only later on that the levee broke, a few weeks before our wedding was scheduled. We talked all night, until the sun rose bit by bit, and then we fell asleep in the library together. She laid her head on my shoulder, and curled her arm around mine…. Her nose is awfully sharp, actually, I had a bruise when I awoke, I’m sure.”

He glances at Severus, as if he expects him to laugh, but Severus keeps his lips loosely pressed together, his expression neutral. Lucius’ expression changes slightly, softening. He often looks at Severus like that, like he isn’t sure what to do with him, like something about Severus makes him sad.

It is usually followed by some demand that Severus do something – speak more politely, read this book, think more, swear less, consider this argument. Severus, on the one hand, is glad that he has spent his summer making of himself a more controlled person, a more realised man, but on the other hand—

It so grates on him, when Lucius forces his control forward. It reminds him of his own father, his real father, who had only cared to force things when Severus was a boy, trying to make him play football or try a cigarette, insisting he be stronger, louder, better— Of course, his preferences changed on any given day. Other days, he was to be quieter, slower, out of the way.

 “Your father has barely been in the manor this past summer,” Severus says quietly.

“He’s been abroad often,” Lucius says delicately, and Severus wrinkles his nose slightly, sliding a hand under Fripouille’s chest and dragging her up slightly. She miaows a noise of complaint, but when he brings her up against his chest, so that he can bury his nose on the soft down of her fur, the noise becomes a soft chirrup, and she bashes her hard skull against the jut of his chin, her back paws digging into his thigh as she puts her weight on them. Cats have a strange smell to them – he can smell her fur, her skin, even smell the grass and mulch clinging to her paws from rushing about outside the greenhouse.

“Do you serve him?” Severus asks quietly, his voice slightly muffled by Fripouille’s hard-muscled body and the extra insulation of her downy fur. “This Dark Lord?”

“I follow in my father’s footsteps,” Lucius murmurs: it isn’t a direct answer, but it is all the information he needs, all he has asked for. Fripouille shifts her body, putting her ridiculously big paws on his shoulder and standing up against him, her tail shifting beside her as she rubs her face against his cheek and the side of his neck, still purring like an engine.

“Wilkes mentioned it to me,” Severus murmurs, gently rubbing back and forth on Fripouille’s back, just below her tail. “And Avery, as well, he said that somebody of my skills would do very well, in the Dark Lord’s service, that he wouldn’t be deterred by my… He said he would see my potential.”

“Your potential is your own,” Lucius says sharply, all but snaps at him.

“Is it? You seem to feel the need to shape it, this way and that.”

“For _you_ ,” Lucius retorts, and when Severus sneaks a glance at him from behind Fripouille’s uncaring mass, he sees the anger in Lucius’ face, the grit of his teeth. “Severus, I do not spend my time with you that I might call in the chit later on: I give you the tools that you might better yourself, if you wish, and I would let you run as you please.”

“But the Dark Lord—”

“Would _shackle_ you,” Lucius hisses. “ _Graces_ , Severus, your every strength would be naught but an addition to his arsenal: he would not care for you, would use you as he pleased, and leave you by the wayside if you disappointed him.”

“I wouldn’t disappoint him,” Severus argues, although already he can feel his resolve weakening: it is but an idle thought, a vague idea, a _hope_ , a dream—

“You think you need the Dark Lord’s influence to be powerful?” Lucius asks, _demands_ , all but spitting in his abrupt rage. “You think you need to ride on another man’s coat tails, that you might make your future? Severus, _no_. Let me tell you what will happen, you _idiot_ child, because the future splits into two directions, _two_ , and two only.”

Lucius’ voice drops to a tone so quiet and so chillingly cold that it is all Severus can do not to clutch the cat to his chest, although he doesn’t fear Lucius, could never bring himself to be frightened of him when he knows precisely what he is.

He’s never seen Lucius icy, grey eyes quite so turbulent with fervour.

“Either the Dark Lord will win this war,” he says lowly. “And if that is the case, why, you need not ever be known to him, but as a maker of potions, as a creator of spells, whatever act of genius you choose to put yourself on, whatever path you craft for yourself. You will not _serve_ him, you will be but a subject beneath his monarchic rule. And in the other scenario, Severus, in the other, the Dark Lord loses. Dumbledore or some other _great_ wizard will defeat him, and his empire will crumble: you will never think of servitude to anybody else again.”

“No one will ever call me a _genius_ ,” Severus mutters, feeling his lip curl, feeling the frustration burn in his chest. He isn’t a genius, anyway – he might look smart, compared to half of the _idiots_ in his classes, but that isn’t genius, just reading, just paying attention, that isn’t genius. He’s _above average_ , at best, and that’s just perfect for him. “No one will ever look at me twice, because I come from—”

“It doesn’t matter where you come from,” Lucius interrupts him.

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” Severus snaps before he can stop himself, and he almost flinches at the shadow of fury that passes over Lucius’ face. “No, no, it _does_ matter, or else you wouldn’t put so much effort into teaching me how to talk, and how to dress, and—”

“And with those lessons behind you, you seem no poorer than most of your classmates,” Lucius says, his voice a little softer as the rage fades back.

Severus falters.

“No Irish lilt in your accent, no Northern cut,” Lucius murmurs. “No shabby clothes, no ill-fitting garments… Severus, this is all you need. You can do more if you like, later on – you can change your hair, put on weight, get a tan, whatever you want, but you are _cuttingly_ clever, and there’s nothing egregious enough about your appearance to distract from that. Once you leave Hogwarts, the world will be your oyster – the world will be any mollusc you like, for that matter. Joining the Dark Lord would not bolster your own power at all: all it would do is add your power to his. There is so much risk, Severus, for so little reward.”

Fripouille, apparently bored of all this conversation, leans back from Severus shoulder, dropping gracefully onto the ground and creeping beneath the rose bushes, her tail sweeping as she spies some unlucky shrew, or a mouse, or perhaps, as yesterday, a stray blossom that is twitching in the breeze. Not even the most excellent mouser can have a perfect record.

“I would have thought you’d be pleased,” Severus mutters, taking up his wand and carefully sweeping the numerous cat hairs from his robes, safe in the knowledge that the Trace will have little purview over him here, on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. “He wants to eradicate Muggles, doesn’t he? And Blood traitors, he would…”

“It isn’t so simple as that.” Lucius inhales, his nostrils flaring, and he looks out at the streaked sky, the sun now gone behind the horizon, the colour beginning to drain away and give way to black. “I, of course, believe in his goals. I do not, however, think that _he_ does: I think blood purity is the least of his concerns. He seeks only power, and those he might hold beneath his thumb.”

“Then why join him?”

Lucius laughs, and it is the most powerless he has ever looked: for just a second, Severus’ blood is cold in his veins, because it has always seemed to him that Lucius Malfoy was one of the most powerful men in his life, despite his young age, and yet here he is, without command of his situation. _Laughing_ at his own position.

“Severus, I have a wife,” Lucius says, and he turns to look at his face, his eyes… “Narcissa and I talk ever of children, and yet here we are, over two years married, and we haven’t so much as _tried_ at conceiving. Have you thought as to why that might be?”

Severus’ mouth is gummy and dry: nausea bubbles in his belly.

“When I first met him,” Lucius says quietly, leaning in closer than Severus should like, his gaze intent, and Severus is _trapped_ , his shoulders up against the back of the bench, his body tense, “I was scarcely five years old, perhaps even four. I was toddling in the garden, playing with the game fowl – even then, I loved to run amidst the chickens, to chase some of the pheasants. They mostly paid me no heed – they knew I would do them no harm, and I often clumsily fed them seed of the mornings. This is my _very first_ memory, the first memory I can remember, and I was so young I could scarcely talk. I came out to the courtyard, and my father was sitting with some of his friends from school, including one that I had not seen before, a handsome man who wore a cloak despite the warmth of the morning, and I paid him no heed, no heed at all, because I was chasing the birds. My father scolded me, told me I oughtn’t run with them, and do you know what the Dark Lord did?”

Severus shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know. He knows he doesn’t, and he shifts as if to go, but Lucius’ big, broad hand claps down on his shoulder, tightening his grip there.

“He used the Killing Curse,” Lucius whispers. “Killed the bird I had been chasing right before me, just a flash of light, and it was lying on the ground. I picked it up, felt it going cold in my hands: I could scarcely conceive of what he had done. And he _laughed_. Laughed at what he had done, and at me, a child, distraught and holding a dead pheasant in my arms.”

“I just want—”

Severus stops, gritting his teeth.

“They don’t _care_ ,” he says, snaps out. “None of them care, not Potter and his friends, not the Gryffindors – most of the other _Slytherins_ don’t even like me, don’t mind if I get injured, unless we’re involved in some quid pro quo, and none of the teachers give a monkey’s whether I live or die. It’s all hands on deck when I defend myself, but when it’s one of _them_ —”

“I know,” Lucius says.

“I just want—”

“I know what you want,” Lucius says.

“You keep _bloody_ interrupting me!”

“I do indeed,” Lucius agrees. “You want recognition. You want… You want power, and you want autonomy, and you want to be able to pursue your studies in peace, without having to worry about being caught out at any other moment; you want people to recognize exactly how much you can accomplish, exactly how hardworking you are.”

Severus looks down at his lap, now devoid of both cat and cat hair. It’s unsettling, how easily Lucius can pick apart his thoughts at times.

“Severus, Mr Mulpepper does that,” Lucius says mildly. “Once you finish your NEWTs, you might continue working for him – I shouldn’t be surprised if he gave you a grant on which to pursue your own potion-making, your own creations, improvements.”

“Is that why you got me the job?” Severus asks softly.

“I did think ahead in that regard, yes,” Lucius says. “But you needn’t remain with Mr Mulpepper, if you don’t wish to – I only wished to ensure you had some concrete options immediately upon your graduation.”

“They already _think_ I’m a Death Eater,” Severus mutters. “So if people are going to think I’m one anyway, then maybe it’s better for me to just…” He trails off, looking at Lucius’ expression, at the silver eyebrow raised in sardonic expectation, the hard eyes, and he sighs. “I just want it to stop being so hard. You always say that if I just work harder, everything will even out, and I keep working, and nothing is even.”

“Just a little longer now,” Lucius says, and again there’s that sad expression he gets: Severus feels his fingers brush against the side of his shoulder, the movement presumably intended as comfort, and he leans away slightly. Defeated, Lucius retracts his hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to take the cat?”

“I don’t want your cat.”

“Severus, we still have time to go to Diagon Alley, and I can purchase for you your own cat, if you—”

“Shut up,” Severus mutters, and Lucius smiles at him, reaching out to him: his thumb brushes against the side of Severus’ cheek, the motion very gentle. He’s always very gentle when he touches animals, or other people – you’d think, with how big of a man he is, with how broad-shouldered and how much muscle is packed on him, that he’d be rough, or clumsy, but he isn’t either.

( _Because he isn’t your father, is he?_

_He makes of himself your father, but he isn’t your father, no matter how annoying he might be, no matter how commanding: he isn’t your father, and you know that he isn’t, because Lucius actually loves you._

_And your mother, where is she in all this? Alone in that house, waiting for him to come back, drinking and cursing your name?)_

“Come,” Lucius murmurs, retracting his hand. “Let us inside: Narcissa will be wondering where we are.”

“I hope it ends soon,” Severus says. “So that you and Narcissa can have some real children of your own, instead of just having to deal with me.” It sounds like a platitude, he realises, as soon as he says it: it sounds ill-rehearsed, and awkward.

“Don’t say such things,” Lucius replies, twisting his mouth as he looks at Severus. “Severus, if we have _a thousand_ children, you will still be welcome to bother us all you please.” He would probably _like_ a thousand children, too. Stupid man.

“Would I still be your favourite?”

“You’re not even my favourite now, you insufferable child,” Lucius says, shoving him playfully in the lower back and making him stumble: Severus laughs, and he jogs a little ahead, toward the doors of the manor. “Are you quite sure about the—”

“Shut up about the cat!” Severus says, and Lucius’ laughter follows him up the path.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“We won’t go with you to the station,” Narcissa explains as Lucius carries Severus’ trunk into the great, lofty kitchen, where the fireplace is connected to the Floo system. He doesn’t even bother to use a featherlight charm, just hefting it with ease on one of his shoulders, and Severus has already restrained two comments about it. “Best we don’t give anybody anything to tease you about.”

“No one _teases_ me, Narcissa. And those that attempt anything else soon regret it,” Severus says, and Narcissa sighs, reaching out and dragging a thumb over his chin, apparently to remove a speck of dirt. “I’ve made my bed, and the room ought be as I left it, I made sure not to leave anything behind, except—”

“You can leave whatever you like,” Narcissa says airily, waving a hand. “It’s your room. I’ll buy black bedsheets and paint the walls obsidian for the Christmas holidays.” She must be joking, but Severus isn’t sure if he’s actually supposed to laugh, and Narcissa gives him a strange look before leaning in, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Confused, he lets her hug him, awkwardly patting her back, and then she takes a step away, wiping at one of her eyes.

“I left something for you, on the desk,” he finishes, somewhat lamely, and Narcissa nods without looking at him. It had been nothing especially impressive – a small sapling for a black cherry tree, one of the magical varieties that dances when it’s in blossom, and a box of chocolates of the kind he’s seen Lucius and Narcissa share.

“There, all ready for you,” Lucius murmurs, and Severus turns to look at him, bowing his head slightly. His broom has been tied neatly to the handle of the trunk, so he doesn’t lose it in the Floo.

“Thank you,” he says. “For your— Always, for your hospitality, Lucius. I really wouldn’t be the same person without you.”

“Well, we might thank the universe at large for that,” Lucius mutters, and he drags Severus into a hug, squeezing him tightly in his bone-crushing grip: Severus feels Lucius’ lips press against the side of his head, like he’s seen mothers and fathers do to their children at the platform, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from repeating a sharp complaint, or a sarcastic comment. Either, he suspects, would be unwelcome. “Write me if you need anything. If it’s anything very urgent, I’ll come meet you in the castle.”

“Thank you,” Severus says again, the words muffled by Lucius’ shoulder, and Lucius steps back, patting his cheek.

“Any urgency notwithstanding,” Lucius says, “and we’ll see you in December.”

“Yes, Lucius. Goodbye, Lucius, Narcissa,” Severus murmurs, and he leans down, grasping at his trunk handle as he throws some powder into the fireplace. “Diagon Alley,” he says crisply, and he steps into the green flame.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

_You’re very rude, you know,_ the Sorting Hat says, and Harry laughs, descending the stairs. He doesn’t know what had possessed him to put the thing on his head in ferrying it between Dumbledore’s office and the Great Hall, where preparations are underway for the children to arrive in the evening.

“Am I?” he asks, not bothering to talk in his own head.

 _That sword has been hidden for the longest time_ , the Hat grumbles. _You didn’t even say a word to me. This head of yours, though, what secrets are lurking in here, eh?_

“Yeah, I’ve got plenty,” he agrees. “What do _you_ think, Gryffindor or Slytherin?”

 _I’m the same hat,_ the Hat says, as if Harry has said something to insult it. _You are where I Sorted you. You’d have done well in Slytherin; you did well in Gryffindor._

“Was it difficult to sort—”

 _Ah ah ah. I don’t reveal my secrets anymore than you want to reveal yours, Mr Potter_.

Harry sighs, pushing open the doors to the Great Hall.

“I suppose that figures,” he mutters.

“Ah, Evans, there you are!” McGonagall says, and she puts her hands on her hips, looking him up and down, and at the hat on his head. “It actually rather suits you.”

“You’re very nasty, you know,” Harry says, and McGonagall smiles tightly.

“Well, what is the verdict on _him_ , then, Hat?”

“He isn’t a student,” the Hat says stoutly, and Harry rolls his eyes, taking the hat off his head and handing it over.

“He says Gryffindor or Slytherin would have had pretty much the same effect,” Harry says.

“I said no such thing!” the Hat snaps. “I said you’d have done _well_ in each.”

“Which would you have picked, do you think, were the choice left to you?” McGonagall asks mildly, brushing some imaginary dust from the Hat’s brim. There’s curiosity in her face, but it isn’t overwhelming. “I was a Hatstall, myself – it’s what we call it when the Hat is stuck on a choice for over five minutes. Gryffindor was the winner, although the other choice was Ravenclaw.”

Harry hesitates.

“When I was a kid,” he says slowly, mulling it over as he has a dozen times, “I think I’d have chosen Gryffindor. Now, though, maybe I’d choose differently, or maybe not. Maybe I’d have flipped a coin. The Slytherin kids get the nasty end of the stick, from what I hear.”

“So they say,” McGonagall says, seeming unconvinced, and he watches her as she turns away, just for a moment, and then he turns back into the Entrance Hall, stepping into the courtyard. The sun is beginning to set – the train will be at the station soon. Walking out of the courtyard and toward the path, he sees Flitwick moving down toward Hagrid’s hut, and he jogs after him.

“Professor Flitwick,” he says. “You want a hand with the thestrals?” Flitwick turns to glance at him, suspicion showing in his face.

“You can see them, then?” he asks, quietly.

“Unfortunately,” Harry says.

“Come on, then,” he mutters, and Harry looks to where Hagrid is beginning to gently saddle each of the animals up to the carriages.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“Did you take your medicine?” Wilkes asks, and Severus glances up from the window. Wilkes and Mulciber, two seventh years Severus is aware are already in the Dark Lord’s service, are winning at a game of cards between Severus’ two fellow Sixth Years, Avery and a very anxious-looking Ravenclaw named Stebbins.

“Pardon?” Severus asks.

“You used to have such trouble on the train, with travel sickness,” Wilkes says, in that smooth, easy way of speaking he has – he’s very good at feigning a care for those around him, even if he’s watching them bleed.

Severus feels himself blink, and it is true: since first year, he’s usually had to take an anti-emetic before boarding the Hogwarts Express, to aid him with the travel sickness his body seemed stubborn to grow out of, but last night, what with his conversation with Lucius, it had slipped his mind to brew the potion.

With that said, he feels nothing. No nausea, no dizziness, although the journey is nearly through…

He is nothing more than the surface of a potion, simmering, the surface unbroken, and he feels his lip curl up slightly at one side as he turns his head, meeting Wilkes’ gaze. He’s a handsome boy, Wilkes, in a rugged sort of way – he’s about as big as Lucius is, with the sort of form Severus knows is ideal for a beater, or a rugby-player.

“Merely a new meditative technique,” he says. “I confess, it works wonders.”

“I can’t get over that accent of yours,” Mulciber says admiringly, showing his teeth as he grins. One of them shines gold in the light. _His_ accent is very thick, as he hails from Birmingham, but Mulciber’s family make Herbology supplies, and he is very, _very_ rich. It really does make all the difference.

“I find it a little creepy, to be honest,” Avery mutters – Avery is Severus’ singular room mate in the two-person cells of the Slytherin dormitories, and they have a comfortable existence side-by-side. Severus speaks little to Avery, and Avery little to him: it is rather how Severus likes it. “I like the new shoes, though.”

“A gift, were they?” Wilkes asks. Again, that sweet, _almost_ kindly tone, but his hazel eyes are cold and brimming with sadism. He knows exactly how poor Severus Snape is, and should be, and he wants to remind him to keep his place – this same Wilkes, of course, that would gladly offer Severus up to the Dark Lord, if he thought it would help his own position any. It is Wilkes who had offered to recommend his name.

Severus is prepared for this conversation. Night after night, he had lain awake in bed, preparing himself for the questions about his new accent, his new clothes, his new posture: he has a script for this, and he feels himself relax as he sets a politely unrevealing smile onto his face.

“Why, no,” he says. “I was _lucky_ enough to work in Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary for the duration of the summer.”

“None of the apothecaries accept part-time workers that aren’t of age,” Stebbins says anxiously, looking at Severus with an expression of indignation of his face.

“Oh,” Severus says innocently, like he has rehearsed in front of the mirror a hundred times this summer. “ _Don’t_ they?”

Stebbins flushes, his mouth falling open, but Severus is already standing delicately to his feet as they come to a stop, and he passes between the other boys as they pack their cards away, not bothering to wait for them as he takes up his trunk and his broom. He’s one of the first off the train, and he sets the trunk down where the pile always is, raising his head.

It’s always best to be the first off – it leaves him directly under Flitwick’s scrutiny, meaning that Potter and his friends can’t corner Severus before he can get to a carriage.

“Mr Snape!” says a friendly voice, and he turns to behold the face of Harry Evans, who he had met in the Quidditch supplies shop.

“Mr Evans,” he says slowly. “Are you taking over from Professor Flitwick?”

“Oh no,” Evans says, shaking his head as he holds his lit wand aloft, and he gestures for Severus to come out of the way, so Severus does, standing in line with Evans as he watches the other students come from the train. “Just lending a hand. Much like they are.” Evans nods his head in one direction, and Severus looks to the end of the platform, where two women are standing in the silver-grey robes of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Extra security?” Severus asks.

“Needs must,” Evans says, shrugging his shoulders.

Severus notices as Pettigrew and Lupin come off the Express: Black comes off behind them, holding both his trunk and Pettigrew’s, one beneath each arm. Potter carries his own trunk and two brooms – his and Black’s. The four of them are _insufferable_ , even to look at.

“Oh, look,” Pettigrew says in a faux-friendly tone as Black and Lupin set their trunks down, letting Potter in after them. Black and Potter are grinning; Lupin hangs back a little but there’s still a slight smile on his face. “It’s Snivellus!” It’s _incredible_ , Severus thinks, but somehow he’s even _more_ irritating that he had been with the stutter – he’d only conquered his stammer last year, but now that he can get out full sentences, it’s worse than that annoying noise ever had been.

The idiot thinks he’s _clever_.

“That’ll be three points from Gryffindor, Mr Pettigrew! I don’t think we need that sort of unpleasantness on the platform,” Evans chimes up beside him, and Severus turns to stare at him in shock, even as Pettigrew’s own mouth falls open.

“What?” he asks. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Mr Evans,” Evans says pleasantly.

“You can’t dock points!” Black says, his lip curling. “School hasn’t started yet!”

“Well, if Mr Pettigrew can inflict his lack of creativity on the rest of us, Mr Black, I should think I can dock him points for it,” Evans replies smoothly. “I’m sure your house won’t thank him for his behaviour.”

“Are you the new Muggle Studies professor?” Potter asks quietly, putting his hand on Black’s shoulder and pulling him back before he can argue any further. His eyes are glittering behind his glasses, like he’s just laid them on a new target. “We heard about Professor Kipling retiring.”

“How does he know our names?” Severus hears Pettigrew hiss to the others, but Lupin only shrugs, and Black shakes his head that he doesn’t know. How _does_ he know their names? He had known Severus’, too, because someone had pointed him out – but he wouldn’t have seen the four Gryffindors together, would he? Unless he’s studied the class registers or something, but that would be _mad_ …

“No, no,” Evans answers. “I’m assisting your Defence Professor.”

“And— forgive me for asking, Mr Evans, but how old are you?” Potter asks snidely. Evans _beams_ , apparently unperturbed.

“You’re quite forgiven, Mr Potter,” he says cheerfully. He doesn’t answer the question, and Severus has to call on his new training to keep from sniggering, clenching his jaw slightly at the way Potter’s brow furrows, his lips parting. “Off you go, four to a carriage!”

When the four of them move on, each of them glancing back at Evans, Severus looks at Evans, but Evans doesn’t say a word, going on to calling to the students to move to the carriages. He’s just working up the courage to ask, to question it, when he sees Lily step down from the train, and he feels like his stomach has been dragged out of his belly.

She doesn’t even look at him, although she glances at Evans, frowning at him.

“Where’s Professor Flitwick?” she asks, concerned.

“Down there,” Evans says, pointing to the little figure of Flitwick as he ushers people onto the carriages – he’s onto the third and fourth years now, and the fifth and sixth years will go next. There isn’t a firmly established order, but the younger years usually go first.

“Oh,” she says, looking relieved. “Are you with the MLE office?”

“No,” Evans says. “I’m assisting Professor Sylvester this year, your new Defence teacher. She hates marking essays, and I love it, so we’re splitting the labour between us.”

Lily frowns at this, her brow furrowing and her mouth opening slightly as she tries to figure it out, but then she shrugs, putting out her hand to shake.

“I’m Lily Evans,” she says. “I’m one of the Gryffindor prefects.”

“Very good,” he says. “And I am _Harry_ Evans, although I go by Mr.”

“Oh,” Lily says, seeming to hesitate. “I— er—”

“Yes, I’m Muggleborn,” Evans says lightly, casually. He says it so casually, so easily, that Severus almost wonders if he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head, if, like Severus, he tries to work out a script for the conversations to come.

“Right,” Lily murmurs. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Evans.”

For just a second, her gaze flits to Severus, her expression severe. He tries to make his mouth say something, but no sound comes out, and before he can talk, she moves into the crowd, stopping with a group of Ravenclaw girls she’s very friendly with. He exhales, and when he sees Wilkes step from the train, he takes a step forward.

“See you inside, Mr Snape,” Evans says warmly, and Snape glances back at him, feeling his head tilt slightly.

Except for Hooch and Slughorn, the teaching staff mostly outright dislike him, and while he works with Madam Pomfrey to replenish her stocks, and enjoys a comfortably non-antagonistic relationship with Filch compared to most of the other students in the school, he knows that four staff who don’t _hate_ him are a stark minority. Any new staff talking to Severus in such a friendly way is just…

 _Odd_.

“Yes, Mr Evans,” he replies, falling into step with MacNair behind Wilkes, and he makes his way swiftly to the carriage, feeling the idea of Evans catch in his mind. There’s still something strange, almost artificial, about his face, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m _starving_ ,” MacNair mutters, peering out of the window as the horseless carriages get ready to take them up to the castle.

“Yes, it’s been a long day,” Severus murmurs. “I could do with a meal myself.”

MacNair’s head whips around to regard him, his eyes widened. “You changed your accent?” he demands, and Severus raises his chin slightly, feeling slightly amused. He doesn’t answer until Wilkes and Mulciber have clambered up into the carriage as well, and the door has clicked shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter! Please remember to comment and let me know what you think! <3


	7. Chapter Six: Expectations

Harry moves into the Great Hall, glancing around at all the tables of students. As he enters, walking alongside Flitwick up toward the staff table, he’s aware of all the heads whipping around to stare at him – nobody had noticed him when he’d been standing with Snape at the platform, and besides, with his wand held above his head, they probably just assumed he was another student.

Now, he’s aware of people glancing at him, taking him in.

A group of Ravenclaws giggle as he passes them by, and he feels his jaw set into place, remembering what it had been like in his Sixth Year, with all those girls… It had been nice, on some level – surprising, sure, that so many girls were actually _interested_ in him, when he’d been so nervous about Cho, and then about Ginny, but now it gives him a sort of bad taste that sticks in his mouth, lingers gummy on his tongue.

Of course, none of these girls are seeing him as the Boy-Who-Lived, or anything else. He isn’t that – he’s just another teacher, one young enough to actually be worth looking at. It’d been the same with Lockhart, hadn’t it? And with Remus…

Harry turns to look at the Gryffindor table on the far side of the room, where Remus is laughing, his head thrown back, his hair mousy but _long_ around his head, brushed back from his face. God, he looks young. Tired, but not in the drawn over way he’d always seemed before: he looks tired like he’s just had a rough night’s sleep.

He doesn’t look _exhausted_.

“Ah, Mr Evans,” Dumbledore says, catching his shoulder before he can move for his seat, and Harry feels himself frown, but Flitwick shoots him as a grin as he moves back to his seat, and McGonagall is smirking from where she stands beside the lectern.

“Oh, _no_ ,” he protests, glancing at the Hat. “We already—”

“Our First Years shall be another ten minutes, according to Mr Hagrid,” Dumbledore declares to the room at large, and Harry sets his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest as a hush falls over the room, looking up at the candles instead of at the students, who aren’t just _glancing_ at him, now, but are all _staring_ at him. “We shall introduce him properly in a minute, with the year’s announcements, but this is Mr Evans, and he’ll be a new addition to our staff this year.”

At the Gryffindor table, somebody wolf-whistles, and Harry sees Sirius Black duck his head, laughing. He can’t keep the grin from his own face as he runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“Thought I was meant to be in the background,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth, and Dumbledore pats his shoulder absently. Harry is aware of the burning blush on his cheeks, even as he runs his hand through his hair.

“Would you like to say a few words, Mr Evans?” Dumbledore asks, cheerfully.

“I don’t think the words I want to say are appropriate for most of the children, Headmaster,” Harry replies, and there’s scattered laughter around the room, and applause from some of the tables.

“Mr Evans, you might realize,” Dumbledore continues, his smile beatific, “is not a Hogwarts student, and was homeschooled in America.”

 _“Condolences!”_ calls a voice he can’t identify from the Ravenclaw table, and Harry laughs with everybody else.

“So, of course, he has never been Sorted. We thought you children might like to see him put to a House, although of course, this will make no real difference to Mr Evans’ teaching, I’m sure. Professor McGonagall?” There are a lot of noises and chatter around the room – some people let out sounds of disbelief or quiet whoops, and Harry exhales slowly.

McGonagall gestures with one bony finger for Harry to come and sit down on the _ridiculously_ small stool, which had never seemed all that small when he was eleven, and now seems more appropriate for a goblin than for a man.

“Do we have to do this?” he asks, already reluctantly stepping forward, and he sits down on the chair, sighing as the Hat is dropped onto his head. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop blushing, not now. “This was your idea, I take it?” he asks the Hat.

 _Don’t know what you mean…_ _Besides, you know, the children will trust you more, like this. They’ll see you almost as one of them._

“I don’t want them to do that,” Harry whispers.

 _Mmm… Don’t you?_ the Hat replies, in a knowing voice, and Harry feels his brow furrow as the Hat leans back on his head. _I don’t make mistakes, you know. I shan’t show you the other side of the penny once I’ve given it to you._

Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the Hat calls aloud to the room, brightly and with aplomb, “GRYFFINDOR!”

There are cheers from around the room, and Harry gently pushes the hat from his head, setting it down on the stool again and moving past McGonagall and Dumbledore both, dropping down into the seat between Professor Sylvester and Professor Griffin – unlike Professor Trelawney, who almost always ate up in her tower on her own, he’s right here with them. Filch is sitting at the staff table tonight, too, talking with a very unenthused-looking Hagrid at the end of the table…

There’s a sick sensation in Harry’s stomach, one he can’t quite put his finger on – he’s never been one for pageantry, and right now he wonders if they’re thinking of him the way that a lot of them had thought of Lockhart, when he’d first arrived. He must look a right ponce, getting Sorted at his age…

He takes his glasses off to spare him from having to look at all the _students_ staring at him, even though Dumbledore has stepped down to make idle conversation with a Hufflepuff Alchemy student, and he glances at Griffin beside him.

“Did you expect Gryffindor?” Griffin asks, apparently cognizant of Harry’s glance, although he doesn’t know how, especially because Griffin is scarcely more than a blur beside him. Harry runs his finger over the metal arm of his new spectacles.

“Not really,” he says. “I didn’t expect anything.”

“No?”

“I didn’t think they’d _Sort_ me,” he says, and he hears Griffin laugh quietly: his hand reaches out, touching a little too low the first time, touching his upper arm before it shifts, and his palm touches Harry’s shoulder for a second. How old is he? Thirty? Younger?

“It’s alright,” Griffin murmurs, before he retracts his hand. “He did it to give them something to talk about – if they talk about what House you’re in, they have a basis for something to talk about, instead of merely spreading whatever rumour they invent.”

“Seems to me,” Harry replies, “that now it’s just gonna add fuel to the fire.”

“You’re a handsome young man – _very_ young – that’s joined the staff,” Griffin points out. “That fire was going to burn regardless.”

“How did you know I was handsome?” Harry asks, and Griffin chuckles.

“I heard the giggles,” he answers simply, and Harry feels himself smile. “Besides, Harry, at least half of them will moon over Jane instead of yourself.”

Harry slides his glasses back on, and he glances up the table, to the very dour-faced Miss Pink. She doesn’t seem to smile much, if at all, although once again she’s dressed in a very colourful Muggle skirtsuit, and it suits her very well.

He hadn’t been certain what to actually _buy_ , when he’d gone around for robes, and he’d gone for a dark green in this set, and another set in a dark wine colour, as well as a black set for… Well, if he wants to be _unobtrusive_. He’s never bought robes before, not for his own use outside of school, and it had been very strange in Madam Malkin’s, standing in front of the rows and rows of colourful fabrics and having no idea what to say, what to point at. He’d felt like he had as a child again, but more _intimidated_ by his ignorance than excited by it.

He looks across the room, to the Slytherin table.

Snape is sitting beside the big, burly Slytherin he’d walked toward the coaches with, and he’s making quiet conversation with the big Slytherin and some of his friends. One of them he recognizes as Avery, another future Death Eater, and Mulciber, and MacNair. His mother had been right, then, when she’d talked about his Death Eater friends – he can only assume that the big Slytherin will be a Death Eater in the end too…

Somehow aware of Harry looking at him, Snape turns to glance at him, and they lock eyes across the room.

Harry almost expects his scar to hurt him, as it had all those years ago, but of course, nothing happens. Snape just stares at him for a second, and then his head tilts just slightly to the side, his eyes shifting a little: his expression remains neutral, frozen in a mask of familiar indifference, but that head tilt, those eyes, they say _everything_. He’s confused, but he’s _curious_.

It’s _weird_ , how expressive this young Snape is – he’s so different, so young, but he’s not set in stone yet, he’s not… Harry doesn’t know. He isn’t _Snape_ yet, not like Harry had known him.

“ _What_?” he mouths, looking straight at him.

Snape actually _recoils_ slightly, he’s so confused, and seemingly frustrated, as if he’s been caught looking at Harry first. _“What_?” his lips move, and Harry laughs as he glances away, turning to meet the rather severe and disapproving gaze of Professor Sylvester.

“Do you _know_ that young man?” she asks, as if it would be the most disgusting thing in the world, if he said yes. She says it in such a way that implies knowing _any_ children would be an affront to anyone’s sensibility.

“Uh,” Harry says. “Well, yeah, I’ve met him. That’s Severus Snape, he’s one of the Sixth Years. He’ll be very good in Defence, I think. Right, Professor Slughorn?” Harry asks, leaning past Sylvester to glance at him.

Slughorn is looking rather dolefully at the empty table, but now he glances up, his wide eyes flitting between Harry and Sylvester, and then he smiles. “Ah, yes, Snape is rather good at almost everything, actually. Well, I say almost. His O.W.L.s were all Os.”

“ _All_ of them?” Harry repeats, glancing back at Snape, who is frowning across the table at MacNair, and then looking back to Slughorn. “If his grades are that good, why isn’t he a prefect?”

An awkward expression passes over Slughorn’s face, his mouth forming an O of careful thought, and he leans away, back into his seat: his hands protectively form a loose cage over his protruding belly. “Er,” he says, “well, ah, several things are taken into account, when it comes to the selection of prefects. Not merely school performance, you see, but, ah, _behaviour_.”

“Behaviour?” Harry repeats innocently, thinking of all the spells scrawled across Snape’s potions text book – spells that are maybe yet to be written, now that he comes to think of it.

“Well,” Slughorn murmurs. “You know, some children, they do very well _in_ class, but, ah, outside of it…”

“He’s a bully?” Harry asks.

“Young Snape?” Slughorn repeats. “Oh, no, heavens no. I’m sure he’d like to be.”

“ _Horace_ ,” snaps Hayden, the Herbology professor, and Slughorn seems to realize what he’s said, awkwardly clearing his throat. Hayden leans over Slughorn, and Harry meets his gaze.

“Mr Snape,” Hayden says very seriously, his bushy eyebrows all but wriggling on his face, “is a boy with something of a temper on him. Has a bit of an ongoing rivalry with the four Gryffindor boys. Usually loses, you see.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Harry says, “if the four of them gang up on him.”

“He usually holds his own, actually,” Slughorn says, almost ruefully. “He’s a little terror, when he wants to be. _Capital_ potionsmaster, though, he, ah, he wants to work at St Mungo’s after Hogwarts, I think… Helps Poppy brew all the potions for the infirmary.”

“Shouldn’t you do that, being as you’re the Potions Professor?” Harry asks.

“Hmm, what?” Slughorn asks, feigning incognizance, and Harry almost laughs at the sheer _innocence_ he packs into his face.

Before Harry can needle him any further, the doors open up and McGonagall brings the First Years into the room. One of them, an extremely pale, thin little girl with her hair in pig tails, is soaked to the skin.

“Ah, she fell in the lake,” Slughorn says knowingly, with a fond little smile on his face. “There’s always one.”

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“Mr Snape, Mr Avery, and Mr Wilkes, isn’t it?” Evans asks, stopping in the corridor, and Severus watches him, taking in the red robes he’s wearing, like he’d been prepared for his silly little game at Sorting. They’re a little odd – the robes are new, but they’re very _tight_ compared to most modern robes, coming right against his breast and only letting out a little bit in the skirt and the sleeves, whilst not being made of an especially stiff fabric.

“Yes, Professor Evans,” Wilkes says, and Evans smiles up at him.

“No, no, _Mr_ Evans is just fine,” he corrects mildly.

It’s a little bit past seven o’clock, and they’re standing in the Entrance Hall, waiting for Mulciber to come back from the bathroom before they move into the Great Hall to sit down for breakfast. Evans has just come down, and it’s… He’s _odd_. He’d come right up to them, wished them a cheery good morning…

“We don’t normally call members of staff that,” Wilkes explains, his voice smooth and low. “Even when they are very young.”

“So good of you to say, Mr Wilkes,” Evans says. “But I’m not a full professor. Just think of it like this: most Muggles call their teachers Mr or Miss, in their schools.” Abruptly, the nature of the conversation changes, and Severus watches as Wilkes and Avery both stiffen slightly: Evans retains a breezy smile, as if he doesn’t notice, but Severus thinks he does. He _must_ do.

“Do they,” Wilkes says flatly, disgust heavy in his voice. “Are you saying we should be more like _Muggles_ , Mr Evans?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Evans says casually. “There’s a lot of pointers we can take from Muggles, us wizards. Muggles, for example, don’t usually take up with their cousins – they know that inbreeding is bad for them. That it leads to weakness, instability, illness… _Madness_ , in the case of some. Funny, that, isn’t it?” He says it so… There’s a tone of, “ _We’re all friends, here_ ,” and yet Evans’ green eyes are quite cold where they rest on Wilkes’ face.

Wilkes’ parents, of course, are cousins.

Severus doesn’t let his lips move, doesn’t let himself laugh, but there’s a burgeoning amusement in his chest – this Evans man is plainly an idiot, on some level, but it is _funny_ to see Wilkes’ face redden so entirely, his handsome jaw clenching.

“You a Muggleborn, then?” Avery asks sharply.

“Why, _yes_ , Mr Avery,” Evans says brightly. “However did you guess?”

“Mr Evans,” Severus says, in what he hopes is a silky voice, and Evans’ gaze flits toward him. Last night, Severus had caught him looking at him, and it had been so _odd_ : Evans had acted as if it had been Severus who’d been staring, and even now, Severus doesn’t know what to make of him. He’s gone from provoking Potter and his friends last night to messing around with Wilkes – maybe he just doesn’t like Purebloods. “I hardly mean to police that which you say, but the subject of blood politics is a somewhat _impolite_ for…” He pauses for just a second, and then allows the slightest of smiles, which is honed as the politest of insults. “ _Mixed_ company.”

Wilkes and Avery each snigger, but Evans’ expression doesn’t change, his focus right on Severus’ face, like he’s studying him, analysing him somehow. What is it, Severus wonders, that he’s looking for?

“Really, Mr Snape?” Evans asks in a low voice. “I had _no_ idea.” And then, like he’s experimenting with something, he leans in just a little closer. “Of course, there’s no mixing with _me_ : I’m Muggleborn, through and through. Mixed would be a Half-blood, right?”

Severus’ hands clench into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t let anything show in his face: it doesn’t matter, because Evans seems to know that his blow has landed, and he gives Severus and the other boys a wink before he turns his back on them ( _“Never turn your back on someone after you’ve insulted them, not right away. That’s a duelling offence,”_ echoes Lucius’ voice in his head, and Severus’ blood feels hot under his skin), moving into the Great Hall.

“He’ll be dead before the year’s out,” Wilkes mutters, a slow smile of satisfaction curving his lips as he watches Evans walk away. The tightness of his strangely tailored robes lets out a little just below his waist, and Severus can see the curve of his arse and his thighs when the skirt shifts – he isn’t a big man, nor a muscular one, but he’s certainly _built_ like the Quidditch player he’d claimed to be. “Uppity little so-and-so, that one. You think these Mudbloods would learn to hold their tongues.”

 _He knows I’m a Half-blood_ , Severus thinks, and he thinks of his own private little appellation, the source of some vague fantasy when he dreams of being as the Dark Lord is, being an object of fear and awe in his _own_ right, but—

It is one thing, to know his name, to know any of their names.

It’s another to know their blood status.

**~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~ CHASING GHOSTS ~** **☾ ϟ** **☽ ~**

“Mr Evans,” a female voice says, and Harry turns his head, looking his mother in the eyes. She seems to realize what she hadn’t realized the night before, leaning in slightly to stare up at his face, her lips pursing into a tight frown of concentration that reminds Harry, eerily, of Aunt Petunia. He’s never seen that expression on another person’s face before.

“Ms Evans?” Harry replies, raising his eyebrows, and Lily leans back on her heels slightly. They’re the same height, he realizes, with a kind of chilly comprehension. James is taller, maybe 5’9” or 5’10”, but he and Lily both are a few inches shorter, and they’re the same height. No one told him that, before. No one ever…

“Uh, I just wanted to ask about the syllabus this year,” Lily says, with a little anxiety, and her fingers, which are slim and with shiny nails, tap against the back of the book in her arms. “Defence has non-verbal magic on the sixth year syllabus, but Defence really isn’t my strongest suit, and I’m very worried about—”

“Ms Evan,” Harry breaks in, “what did you get on your Defence O.W.L.?”

Lily falters. “Well, an O, but I—”

“I think you’re gonna be fine,” Harry says gently, trying not to laugh. “You’re best at Charms, right? That’s what Sl— Professor Slughorn says.”

Lily bites her lip, looking genuinely anxious, and he feels himself smile.

“Look,” he says, “maybe try some basic charms as practice, okay? Listen, I’m terrible at non-verbal magic, and it was never the end of the world, but I don’t think you’ll be as bad as I am with it. It’s just willpower and focus – it’s easier with the magic you know best, though, so stick with charms at first.” _That’s not exactly true anymore, though, is it? You **were** terrible at non-verbal magic, but not anymore._

Lily exhales, reaching up and running her hand through her hair – it isn’t the way he’d seen James do it in Snape’s memories, but it’s more like the way Harry does it himself, anxious and automatic. He feels weirdly emotional, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he focuses on keeping his expression as neutral as he can.

“You get anxious about all your classes?” Harry asks, wondering if Hermione’s class-related anxiety is something shared in a lot of the Muggleborn students, and Lily glances at him, her brows furrowing, her lips pursing tightly again.

“No,” she says, like it’s obvious. “No, I need…” She shakes her head, taking a step back, and when she smiles again, it’s all white teeth and vivacity. “No, it’s fine. Thank you, Mr Evans – I’ll practice with some charms first.”

Harry’s lips twist into a frown as he watches her walk away, her book clasped across her chest like a shield. He can see her speaking quietly with Remus Lupin, who is listening very concentratedly, and then glances at Harry. Shaking his head slightly, he moves to the staff table for breakfast, eating something quickly.

He heads up to the Defence classroom once he’s eaten, moving the desks and chairs to the edges of the room, and he flicks his wand to the side, setting the desks into neat stacks and the chairs in parallel. They’re left with a broad space in the centre of the Defence classroom, and Harry remembers the excited wonder he’d felt when Remus had brought them into the staff room to deal with that Boggart, pushing the furniture aside to do so – Remus, who’s seventeen at most right now.

Merlin, it makes his head hurt, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be doing something _differently_ when he talks to the students, doesn’t know if he’s supposed to conduct himself as if he’s older than he is, or as if he’s meant to just act his own age, but when has he ever done that?

Moving toward the board, he begins to neatly print out the lesson plan on the syllabus, trying to make his handwriting neater than it usually is, trying to make sure that it’s perfectly legible even from the very back of the room.

Professor Sylvester had said she might be a there five minutes before the lesson began instead of ten minutes, because she was speaking with Professor Dumbledore about some last minute timetabling issues this morning, but she’ll still be here on time when the lesson starts, and there’s still a good twenty minutes before—

The knock at the door is crisp and clear, but quiet.

“Come in, Mr Snape,” Harry calls, and the door opens very slowly. Snape frowns at him.

“Why, _pray_ ,” he says in what Harry supposes is meant to be a silky voice, but without his years of practice sounds contrived and a little over-theatrical, “are you assisting in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Mr Evans? Your skillset seems more appropriate to Divination.”

Harry chuckles, and he looks back to the syllabus, writing it out neatly on the board before glancing back to Snape, who has taken a seat on one of the desks. It’s strange, to look at him like this: he does it like any sixteen-year-old would, leaned back and drawn himself up onto the desk surface, his legs hanging down. Harry notices that unlike most of the students, whose ankles would show, Snape is wearing calf-length boots, and Harry would bet he has something like trousers on, too.

Severus Snape, hanging upsidedown from one ankle, _screaming_ …

Harry swallows the disgust he feels and adjusts his hold on the chalk. It’s weird, in any case, to see Snape as a _student_ , someone his age, someone young…

“It’s not really Divination,” Harry murmurs. “I used to do that at primary school.”

There’s a moment’s pause. He doesn’t let himself look back at Snape, because he knows whatever shows on his expression, it’ll probably make him feel upset – that, or Snape looks angry.

“What do you mean?” he asks, finally, the theatricality dropped. Harry can hear it, now, that the accent is put on – sometimes, he clips words a little too much, like he hasn’t yet nailed down the way that he wants to say them.

“My cousin went to school with me,” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders. That seems so long ago, now, so long ago that it almost feels dream-like: the young Dudley that had chased him around, done awful things to him, cornered him, is a spectre compared to the image of Dudley he has now, the big lad with his shoulders down, his hands clasped in front of his belly, saying, “ _I wanted to say sorry_.” Harry inhales, smelling the chalk dust, before he says, “He and his friends used to do awful things to me – beat me up, knock me around a little. I was a lot smaller than they were, and I didn’t know how to defend myself. Or they’d embarrass me, you know. I used to go in from break or lunch time early, so that they couldn’t get me alone, and even if they came into the classroom early, it’d be too risky for them to try anything.”

There’s a long silence.

“I don’t like bullies, Mr Snape,” Harry says. He thinks of Snape in his classroom, leaning down over Neville’s cauldron and staring him down as he shivered and stammered through whatever it was Snape was trying to ask him, and he adds, “I won’t suffer them.”

“Why did you leave America?” Snape asks quietly.

“My family are dead,” Harry replies.

There’s a long pause, and then Snape says, finally, as if he has never said the words before, “My condolences.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, and he sets the chalk down, turning back to look at Snape, who is studiously regarding his own knees. “Did you have a good summer?”

Snape glances up, his eyes narrowing by just a fraction: is he really suspicious of a question like that? He has friends – Avery, Wilkes, Mulciber. Hasn’t _anyone_ asked him that already? Going off the look on his face alone, you wouldn’t think anyone had. “Yes, thank you,” he says slowly: he has the air of someone carefully measuring their words, speaking slowly to give them time to come up with the next thing they need to say. “I had a summer position at an apothecary.”

“Professor Slughorn mentioned you were a very skilled potioneer,” Harry says.

“I can follow a recipe,” Snape says guardedly.

Harry feels his mouth curve up on the one side, and he looks at Snape for a second, taking this in. _I can follow a recipe_.

“Don’t like to blow your own horn, do you?” Harry asks mildly.

“I wouldn’t see the point.”

“And you don’t like small talk.”

Snape frowns, his brows furrowing slightly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“Who told you I was a Half-blood?” Snape asks. The question comes out almost impulsively, a thrown-out, almost desperate demand – he’s so… _Unpolished_. It’s like he isn’t finished yet, exactly, like he’s been carved into the rough shape he’s supposed to be, but not sanded down yet. It would be endearing, maybe, if it was anyone else – with Snape, Harry just feels _sad_.

“Nobody,” Harry answers. “Snape’s a Muggle name, that’s all, and I guessed based on your friends that you weren’t a Muggleborn.”

“They aren’t my friends,” Snape says, very plainly. There’s not a thing showing in his face right now, just a neutrality in his features, his eyes black and staring. “I don’t have any friends,” he adds, his tone almost defiant.

“Must make Christmas and birthdays easier,” Harry says.

“What?” Snape demands, seemingly _baffled_.

The way he says it isn’t especially nasty, but is like indignation with the air let out halfway through – he expected Harry to say something crueller than he had, or not to crack a joke at all, and Harry smiles at him.

For a second, he thinks Snape is gonna snap at him, but then something shifts, and Snape relaxes, and _laughs_. Harry stares at him as his face shifts, his cheeks slackening, his thin lips drawing back and showing his crooked, yellow teeth (but not as yellow as they used to be, or will be), and he looks away as he laughs. “Oh,” he says, finally. “Yes.”

 _You never saw him relax, laugh_ , Flitwick had said to him. _He looked so much—_

And what was he going to say? Younger? Better? Less ugly, more human, _happier_?

The door opens, and a pair of Gryffindors hesitate for a second before Harry waves them in, and they come in together, gathering at the edges of the rooms. As people come into the room, filtering in bit by bit and joined by Professor Sylvester, Harry steps aside and gets ready for the class to begin.

James and the others come in just before the hour, laughing together over something or other, and Harry watches the way Sirius shoves Peter just a little too hard: he sees the way Peter turns to snarl at him, and only calms down again when Remus pats his shoulder, relaxing slightly. Sirius leans down over him, offering Peter a smile, and Peter shoves him hard in the chest, but Sirius only laughs, and apparently, that makes Peter laugh too.

James isn’t watching his friends mess around. His gaze is fixed on Snape, who remains quietly in his place, his hands neatly folded in his lap, speaking quietly with Avery. He has his right hand palm up, the fingers spread, and he is pointing to different parts of his hand as he talks: Avery, for his part, is listening intently, his expression a mask of concentration.  

 _They’re not my friends_ , he’d said. Well, what _are_ they, then? If Harry asked Avery, or any of the others, would they say Snape was their friend?

The idea of somebody claiming Snape as a friend is odd, but…

Maybe it’s a political thing, he supposes, something he can’t wrap his head around – a bit like how Draco Malfoy seemed to spend all his time with Crabbe and Goyle, but never because he actually liked them, or especially trusted them. They were just there, with him…

And James… There’s something in his expression that Harry doesn’t like, his lips quirked into the smallest of smiles, a kind of calculation going on behind his eyes, which are a light hazel flecked with darker shades. He sees his mouth move as he says something to Sirius, and Sirius’ eyes move too, focusing on Snape.

His grin is savage in its enthusiasm.

“Now, now,” Sylvester calls, her papery voice barely breaking the noise of the students around her, and none of them pay her any attention: Harry can see the confused irritation pass over her face.

“Shut up!” Harry snaps from behind her, projecting it as best as he can. It has an effect somewhat like a whip crack, and all of the students stop gossiping as one, turning to stare at them.

Sylvester, very slowly, turns her head, and gives him a _look_.

With the students quiet, however, the lesson begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. I also run a [Snape-centric comm](https://snapecomm.dreamwidth.org/)!
> 
> I love to hear thoughts on the series, but just a reminder not to comment simply demanding an update or that I write faster. It's very discouraging, especially when I have only just updated. I'd love love _love_ to hear your thoughts on where the plot is going, or any thoughts about characterisations and their expected journeys.


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